Always On Your Left
by Crimson1
Summary: The Winter Soldier confronts Steve, certain he is remembering his past wrong. Why does he desire Steve when there is no evidence of them having been romantically involved in any historical records? Revelations come to light as Steve realizes they were both idiots in love but never said anything. When Bucky decides to stay, it proves to be a difficult road to recovery. Cap/Bucky.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I wrote this almost right after seeing Winter Soldier, but I couldn't end it at the time, and left it be. I read it again today and realized...I really like it. So rather than fight with myself to get to the smut like originally planned, I let this one stay PG-13. Maybe even PG, really. But I could be convinced to do a second part where this becomes hot and heavy. We'll see how the muse is feeling.

Inspired by me not being able to get the idea of Sam responding to Steve's final 'On your left' with an answering 'On YOUR left'.

* * *

**Always On Your Left**

* * *

_I come up hard but that's okay_

_'Cause trouble man, don't get in my way_

Steve woke up to a smooth voice crooning a song he didn't recognize. He liked the sonorous falsetto singer. Liked the gentle motion in the melody that might have made him sway if he were standing.

His first thought was, _who turned on my radio?_

Then he blinked, and the first wave of searing pain from opening his eyes, from the light coming in through the blinds, made him hold back a hiss as he remembered…everything. He was alive at least, though nothing about the battle he'd faced felt like victory.

He knew Sam was there even before his eyes caught a glimpse of the young veteran who would make an F-16 polite blush with envy if they ever saw him fly, and he understood now why music was playing.

"On your left," he said, trying not to wince or mind how much his voice sounded jagged and broken.

Sam glanced up at him with a small smirk. "On _your_ left."

Steve hadn't sensed anyone else in the room, which made him assume it must be Natasha. She had a knack for stealth. He turned his head slowly with a ready smile but his expression went blank as he took in the figure in the chair beside him.

His chest tightened and he nearly choked on the name that left his lips. "Bucky…?

The man in the dark cotton jacket and plain white T-shirt, with a baseball cap pulled tight over his head, flinched barely perceptively, but Steve caught it. For a brief moment ice blue eyes looked at him from beneath the hat's rim and Steve felt all of his emotions well up like he might start sobbing, and all he could think was how much he wanted to hug Bucky for all he was worth.

Then Bucky stood and moved past the bed without a glance down at him.

"Bucky!" Steve called. "Where are you going?"

Bucky stopped before reaching the door—no, the Winter Soldier did, Steve could see that now. Bucky wouldn't have gotten up. Bucky would have stayed. He would have smiled, cracked a joke, smacked Steve on the shoulder even though he was still recovering, even if Bucky _had_ been the one to inflict the damage in the first place.

But still, it had to mean something that the Winter Soldier was there.

"Bucky?"

"You're alive," the Winter Soldier said in a gruff near-whisper, only just barely tilting his head so that Steve caught a glimpse of his profile. "We didn't kill each other. We're even." He reached for the door knob.

"Wait!" Steve shot panicked eyes at Sam, who merely shook his head and shrugged. "Buck, please…don't leave. Please don't leave, we can sort things out. I can help you—" but Steve didn't get to finish saying 'get your memories back' before the door opened and quickly closed again with the assassin's departure.

Steve jerked up in bed only to grimace at the instant thrum of pain, then looked down to see how tied down he was with wires and tubes throughout his injured body.

"Do you…want me to go after him?" Sam asked, his voice and wide dark eyes betraying that he really hoped Steve said no.

Steve let himself sink back into the bed. "What happened?"

"Sorry, man," Sam said, visibly relaxing at being able to stay put. "That first day after they declared you stable, I fell asleep in here. Us normal folk can get pretty tuckered out saving the world, ya know? I woke up late afternoon…and there he was, in that chair. Never spoke a word to me, no matter how much I talked his ear off.

"The one time he got up—I assumed to use the bathroom; I mean, even _you_ have to take a piss once in a while, I hope—I reached to stop him, just to ask if maybe he wanted to grab some coffee or something to eat…" Sam trailed and leaned back, inclining his head to his right at the nearby cabinets.

One of the doors was completely caved in and cracked, as if something…_someone_ had been thrown into it.

Steve's frown deepened.

"The bruise is pretty impressive too," Sam smirked with a gingerly touch to his lower back, "but I'm alright. Didn't try the same thing again, though. And he came back. Just sat their vigil with me, waiting for you to wake up."

"He saved my life, Sam."

"He almost killed you first. Almost killed me. And Nat. And—"

"And a lot of other people, I know. Because they took his life away from him and programmed him into someone he's not." Steve slammed his fist down on the bed. If he had been at full strength, he probably would have pulled out a few of those tubes stuck in his arm.

"I know. And I know you're gonna wanna look for him, but maybe the best thing you can do is wait for him to come to you." Sam's eyes were sincere, his mouth a strange thin line without any of his usual snark in the expression. "Steve…he came here, didn't he? It's a start. But pushing him will only turn things sour. I think we've both learned that the hard way already." He grimaced as he shifted in his seat.

Steve sighed, feeling even more helpless than when the Winter Soldier's metal fist had been connecting with his jaw—over and over again. Then he'd had a challenge to face, and Steve Rogers never backed down from a fight. But sitting on the bench, waiting, _doing nothing_, in the hopes that things would work out on their own? That wasn't him.

"Patience, Cap," Sam said. "You need recovery time anyway. Just you wait. He'll be back.

The Winter Soldier did not come back. Not while Steve was in the hospital. Though Steve's stay was impressively short despite his injuries thanks to his 'Super Soldier Metabolism' as Sam put it. He was eager to get back to his apartment once they released him, holding on to some faint hope that Bucky might be waiting for him there.

He wasn't. Steve didn't wait even a day before calling everyone together to see what their next moves would be, but the world was still falling apart around them and Sam was the only one who volunteered to help Steve on his quest to search for the Winter Soldier. Steve would have been okay on his own, but he couldn't help a pleased smile to have a friend with him on the mission to find the first friend he'd ever known.

Steve didn't want them to get ahead of themselves though. They had to start in D.C. Maybe Bucky hadn't left, maybe he'd only gotten one state over, maybe he'd gone to New York…or Moscow. There were plenty of options, but first they needed to see what leads they could find in the city. Security from the hospital only gave Steve a general direction, but without S.H.I.E.L.D.S.'s full resources, he couldn't tell much else about where the Winter Soldier had gone. They had some digging to do.

It wasn't safe to stay in his apartment, but he figured they wouldn't remain in D.C. long if they caught wind of the Winter Soldier elsewhere, so Steve took his time deciding what personal belongings he needed and laid down for his last night in the apartment before he'd move in with Sam until they left the city.

Steve often slept with his window cracked. The sounds of New York had been the perfect lullaby, one he'd grown up with and cherished from boyhood days to adulthood, and D.C. had proven a close second for a soothing night's rest. Steve had assumed he'd be too anxious to sleep, but his body wasn't 100% yet, and he'd been pushing himself harder than ever. It was midnight before he hit the pillow, his things all packed by the door, and he was out the moment he closed his eyes.

He stirred around three AM, unsure at first what had woken him.

A hand clamped over his mouth and a blade pressed to his neck, but before he could think to react or struggle, he caught sight of icy blue.

"Move and I'll kill you."

Steve's breath hitched to hear that whispered voice and he immediately stilled.

"You're a fool," the Winter Soldier said, removing the hand from Steve's mouth but not the knife. "You have no reason to trust me but you still listen."

"I trust you, Buck, because—"

The knife pressed more firmly against Steve's throat. "Don't. Talk."

Steve gave an involuntary jerk, not sure what he could do if the Winter Soldier wouldn't let him move or speak.

After a moment of tense silence, the knife retracted.

Steve could make out the Winter Soldier in the dark now, as the assassin sat up on the edge of the bed. He was wearing the same jacket and T-shirt, the same ball cap. Had he showered since then? Had he eaten? Had he slept?

"I talk. You listen." The Winter Soldier paused then glanced down at Steve. "You can nod."

Steve nodded hurriedly. The voice of his friend, while hushed and gruff and angry, was a soothing balm he'd accept again and again, whatever it was he had to say.

The Winter Soldier stared forward, his arms falling to his sides, though the knife remained in his right, human hand. "I went to the Smithsonian."

That was not the explanation for this encounter that Steve had been expecting, and it took him a moment to register what that meant. He'd been to the exhibit—_their_ exhibit.

"I read all about us. There. Online. I couldn't find anything…"

Steve furrowed his brow. There was plenty to find. Sure, there were the occasional items that weren't true, as was the nature of this era's communications what with the Internet, but it was easy to decipher what was real and what was gossip or made up nonsense.

"I remember…some things. When they found me, what they made me do, the cold…" He trailed a moment but his face remained blank in the dark, his eyes staring ever forward at some distant point on the wall. "I remember things from before too. Mostly this skinny kid…with a serious face. And a death wish."

Steve opened his mouth to protest that. He hadn't had a death wish, not when he was fending off bullies in back alleys, or when he was fighting to get into the war and play his part. Just because he had been born smaller and weaker didn't mean he couldn't put everything he was into protecting what he believed in. Bucky had understood that in the end, maybe only accepted it once Steve had a body that wouldn't break as easily or fall prey to an asthma attack, but he'd understood.

Maybe the Winter Soldier meant a different death wish—how this larger Steve had been willing to lay down his life if only the blows would stop and _Bucky_ would be the one hovering over him in that carrier instead.

"I'm remembering it all _wrong_."

Steve's drifting thoughts snapped back to attention.

"I couldn't find _anything_," the Winter Soldier said again, still not elaborating on what it was he had been looking for. "So why do I feel this way…?"

Steve wondered if the assassin's mind was too muddled from everything that had happened, and starting to get his memories back had only confused him further, had him speaking nonsense.

The Winter Soldier's grip tightened on the knife in his hand. Steve could see the metal one remaining docile on his other side, gloved to hide it. "There were girls, so many faceless girls. I don't feel anything for them," he said.

Steve swallowed the bile in his throat, trying not to think of all the people Hydra had made his friend kill.

"I remember not feeling anything for them then either, but that has to be wrong. When I think of their hands on me…" He trailed again, remaining silent for a long time before he continued. "When I think of their hands on me…I wish they were yours."

It dawned on Steve slowly that the Winter Soldier wasn't talking about women he had killed but about women Bucky had fooled around with. He felt his face heat up and took in a sharp breath. The Winter Soldier turned his head at the noise.

"I'm remembering it wrong," he said again as he looked at Steve, taking the gasp for confirmation.

"I—"Steve snapped his mouth shut when the Winter Soldier's eyes sharpened on his.

Slowly, those icy blue eyes softened. "What?" he demanded. "Talk."

Steve took a breath. Half of him wondered if what he wanted to say was just wishful thinking, that maybe his friend's mind really was too messed up to bring back the way it once was and that's why he was having these thoughts and feelings for him now, but the other half hoped that maybe a dozen missed opportunities and moments that Steve had figured he was reading too much into might have meant something more.

"I don't know, Buck. Maybe you're _not_ remembering it wrong."

"Then we _were_ like that?"

"No," Steve said quickly, but he rushed to speak on if only to dismiss the flash of pain and confusion that crossed the Winter Soldier's face. "I wondered sometimes…if you felt the way I did. I tried so hard to tell you, Bucky, but it was a different time then. And I couldn't stand the thought that I'd lose you if you didn't feel the same, if you were plain disgusted with me, or worse…started pitying me."

Steve realized how much he'd just confessed, most of it a rambling mess he'd had in him for over 70 years. Longer. Peggy had been the only girl who ever got him to forget his feelings for Bucky. He could have been happy with her. But if he could have had _Bucky_…

"You let on so much that you liked being with those girls, I figured it had to be the truth," Steve said. "Those few times I let myself think differently…I don't know."

"What times?" the Winter Soldier prodded. "Tell me."

Steve glanced at the knife in the Winter Soldier's hand, which had glinted in the meager light from the window when the assassin leaned toward him. The Winter Soldier followed his gaze to the blade. He clutched the handle tightly for a moment, then slowly, keeping his eyes on Steve the entire time, slipped it into a hidden sheath on his leg.

If he decided he wanted to use the knife later, it wouldn't take much effort to draw it again, but his willingness to put it away was a start.

He leaned back to his stiff position on the edge of the bed, both hands resting on his thighs now. "Tell me," he said again, gentler, almost but not quite pleading. He didn't return his eyes to the wall, but watched Steve intently, barely blinking. It might have been unnerving from anyone else, but Steve had once been very used to Bucky's rapt attention whenever he told a story; he figured this was as close to that as he could get—for now.

"Well…" Steve began, finally allowing himself to relax a little as he lay there in the bed with his back-from-the-dead friend sitting at his hip. "When we were real little, it didn't matter, I know, because we were dumb kids, but…we were always so close. Always touching. If we slept at each other's houses, we'd practically wake up on top of each other by morning, all tangled up.

"I started feeling different about it as we got older. When I first felt jealous over your gals, I figured I just didn't want them to take my friend away, but…I missed your touches, missed sleeping all wrapped around each other even when it was sweltering out. So I'd crash your dates." He paused to grin, remembering all the ways he'd tried to make it seem like an accident, or came up with some excuse that Bucky was needed back home. "You never minded, not once. And if you got a girl for me, after I sabotaged that, which I always did, on purpose or otherwise, you never got angry. Only time you came close was…before you shipped off for the war.

"I knew you were just worried. Worried I wouldn't be able to take care of myself alone in New York. Worried more that I'd find a way to follow you, which was exactly what I did. But you never minded about the girls if I was there. More often than not, you'd send them home and we'd spend the rest of the night together.

"The time I really wondered, really thought for one brief moment that you might feel like I did…" Steve let his voice drop off, gaining the courage to bring this story up, one that had haunted him for years.

The Winter Soldier watched him patiently. It was difficult to meet his gaze while telling the story, penetrating as it was, so Steve stared instead at the curve of the assassin's elbow.

"We were teenagers, maybe a little older to still be sleeping at each other's houses, and we'd pulled all the couch cushions onto the floor like we always did. It wasn't too late yet, Ma was still up since she'd just gotten home from a late shift, and…and we were talking hushed in the dark of the living room, faces barely an inch apart, laughing. I can't even remember what we were talking about…

"Then we hit one of those silences that always happens in a conversation, though for us they were never awkward, just nice quiet. Your eyes…" Steve flicked his gaze to those same blue eyes and they were almost, _almost_ the way he remembered them, softened now as he listened. "They just seemed so bright. And you had this little half smirk, and…I just wanted to kiss you so much I could barely stand it. I leaned forward a bit, and I could have sworn you did too. We were so close…and then Ma walked in asking if we needed anything," he finished with a hoarse laugh, his eyes dragging back down to the Winter Soldier's elbow. "We snapped apart, told Ma we were fine, and I guess I was just so scared that you'd realized what I was going to do, that you'd snapped away because you understood and..." He sighed.

"I didn't…" the Winter Soldier started to say but stopped.

Steve looked up, but the assassin had turned to find his place on the wall again.

"I snapped away…because you did," the Winter Soldier said. "I tried to bring it up once…"

That was news to Steve, because he couldn't remember Bucky ever talking about that night.

"Years later. You were…sad. You'd lost someone."

"Ma?"

The Winter Soldier glanced back to Steve and held his gaze again. "Ma…" he repeated, which he'd called Steve's mother anyway, since almost their first day as friends. "I wanted to put the couch cushions on the floor again…"

Steve grinned, remembering the conversation. It had been at the forefront of his mind since he first saw the Winter Soldier's face, when Bucky had told him, "til the end of the line."

"But you didn't want to."

Steve stared as it dawned on him what the Winter Soldier was saying. Was that true? Had Bucky been asking for something more that day than just the silly comforts Steve had assumed? It wasn't that Steve hadn't found Bucky's concern and method for making him feel better genuine or worthwhile, he had just felt like he needed to be strong on his own. Bucky was always protecting him, always there for him. How could Steve ever be there for Bucky if that was the way their lives always played out?

He sat up, bringing their faces almost instantly only a few inches apart. The Winter Soldier tensed but didn't pull away or reach for his knife.

"We're both idiots, Bucky," Steve said, looking deeply into those vibrant blue eyes that were watching him like a predator that didn't know whether or not it was staring down prey. "You're not remembering things wrong…we were just idiots."

That seemed to soothe something in the Winter Soldier, seemed to be enough to soften his anxiety as the tension rippled from his shoulders.

Slowly, Steve started to raise his right hand. The Winter Soldier tensed again, watching the hand as if it might be a weapon, but he didn't pull away, not even when Steve found harbor against his old friend's familiar face. He pulled the Winter Soldier closer until their foreheads touched. The assassin let out a shaky gasp of air. Steve kept his eyes trained on icy blue, however blurry from being so close.

"It's you, Buck. And it's me. Just like I said it would be. 'Til—"

"'Til the end of the line," Bucky breathed out in a jagged whisper.

Steve smiled. "Yeah."

Steve didn't have any real plan beyond that moment. He wasn't good at instigating intimacy. All the girls he'd ever kissed had all made the first move. So when the Winter Soldier pushed himself forward until their mouths met, Steve was startled but pleased. He'd dreamed of reuniting with Bucky like this. The first time he lost him, he'd envisioned it, showing up to save the day in his new body, sweeping Bucky off his feet, and kissing him for all he was worth. He'd done just that save the kissing part. To have it now…

The Winter Soldier's lips weren't as chapped as he expected. They were damp, as if he'd licked them, bitten them. They moved hurriedly, but with a faint sense of skill from all those dames Bucky had seduced so easily. Steve had always been so envious of those gals.

"Please don't go," Steve whispered against those soft, eager lips when they pulled apart.

"You're leaving," the Winter Soldier said simply.

"Only to stay with Sam, somewhere safe while we looked for you," Steve explained. "But now that you're here, if…if you stay, Buck, we can go wherever you want. Anywhere you want. Just stay. Please." Steve moved his hands to rest on the Winter Soldier's arms and slowly moved them up his shoulders. He could tell the assassin shied from touch on his metal arm, the way he flinched subtly only on that side, but he didn't brush Steve away, even when Steve's hands finally rested behind his neck.

"I don't…know who I am," the Winter Soldier said, so softly that if Steve didn't have super blood in his veins, he probably wouldn't have heard it.

"Sure you do. You're still remembering, but you know. I'll help you remember, Bucky, and it'll be okay. It'll be tough, and scary, and I know there will be times when you'll want to run, but I promise you…everything will be okay as long as you're with me."

"Your friends—"

"My friends trust me. They'll listen. Sam already likes you," Steve said with a smirk, which was mostly true, much as Sam had complained about his bruised back ever since the moment Steve woke up. "We can start with tonight. One night, Buck. And every night after will get easier. I promise." Steve pulled away from the Winter Soldier so he could lie back, but he tugged at the covers on the other side of the bed at the same time so that they fell away from where another pillow rested—empty.

When the Winter Soldier stood, Steve held his breath, prepared to launch out of the bed and tackle his friend to the ground if he had to, but the assassin didn't move to leave as Steve feared. He undressed. Slowly. Meticulously. Neatly folding each piece of fabric or hidden weapon in a pile in the corner. When he was down to just a T-shirt and boxers, he went around the bed to the other side. He didn't hesitate, merely slipped in soundlessly with barely a disturbance of the covers, and lay down with his head on the offered pillow.

Steve always slept on one side of a bed if it was big enough for two, as if he'd been waiting for this for decades—saving a place for Bucky.

The Winter Soldier didn't smell like he hadn't showered. He smelled clean but simple, no aftershave, no cologne. He smelled like Bucky Barnes.

"You're still recovering. You should sleep," the Winter Soldier said, staring up at the ceiling.

"You should too," Steve admonished.

Bucky turned his head to look at him—Bucky, not the Winter Soldier, much as a ghost of the assassin remained in his icy blue eyes. "I'll sleep," he said.

Steve heard the real meaning.

_I'll stay._

And as Steve closed his eyes and gave way to sleep himself, he felt more relaxed, more relieved, more like himself than he had in a long time, certain Bucky would still be there in the morning.

On Steve's left. Right where he belonged.

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THE END (maybe...)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I figured I should listen to the muse and managed to pump this out tonight, so...here you are. I have a few more scenes planned for this. I think I'll write as it strikes me and get them at least to Avenger's tower. Then I should be satisfied. I think. :-)

Enjoy! It gets a little steamier from here...

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Steve awoke first around 6 AM, his usual wake up time, but when he turned his head to find Bucky—_Bucky_—sleeping peacefully beside him, however stiff and militant in the way the former assassin lay flat on his back, he let himself doze.

The second time Steve awoke, he faced his alarm clock with Bucky at his back. The time read 8:15, and there was a heavy—too heavy—arm thrown over him.

A body slightly smaller than his own was molded against his back, and as Steve shifted slightly to look over his shoulder, he felt Bucky rouse and press his face into the fine blond hairs at the back of his neck. Bucky's breath was warm, a strange intimate sensation that made Steve shudder. Bucky's mumbled, sleepy utterance of, "You smell good, Stevie," caused a more telling response—a twitch, a hungry pulse.

Steve relaxed into the sensation of being enveloped, even if only the arm wedged at his back was flesh, and the one over his chest was cold metal.

They'd slept close many times in the past, shared the same bed when they couldn't afford two, or couldn't afford enough heat to keep warm by. A little morning embarrassment was something easily overlooked and ignored back then, just something that happened. But now as Steve felt the hardness of Bucky against him, between thin boxers and his own sleep pants, he knew it was more than mere biology.

The change in Bucky was immediate, like his brain suddenly caught up and remembered that it was not 1942, he hadn't called Steve 'Stevie' in almost 70 years, and just the night before he'd held a knife to his friend's throat. His body tensed, his breathing stopped. He froze. But when he tried to pull his metal arm away, Steve grabbed it and held it in place against his chest.

"Now you're just flattering me, Buck," Steve said, trying to keep the moment light. "I packed boxes all day yesterday. I probably need a long shower."

Breath against Steve's neck again as Bucky let himself breathe. He wasn't a ghost; he didn't have to be a ghost anymore. "I…like your bed," he said quietly, his tone different from the familiar charm of his mumbled words before. "It's not as soft as some. I don't remember sleeping that well in…a long time."

Steve squeezed his friend's metal wrist. That simple statement validated so much. So much. "That's great, Bucky. Me too. I don't even remember any dreams. I always know I've slept poorly if I remember my dreams."

"Yeah…" Bucky said like a breath, like shared remembrance.

Steve didn't want to have nightmares in common, but he knew it wasn't something they could overcome in a night.

Slowly, cautious like trying not to spook a kitten, he turned in Bucky's hold. The metal arm fell away to rest at Bucky's side, and soon they were facing each other. Bucky looked good, having rested. No dark circles under his eyes. Not quite the furrowed brow he'd had before. His hair used to stick up everywhere after a night's sleep back in New York, but it hung about him now long and lazy without any pomade in it. He needed a shave, but Steve didn't mind the scruff.

His eyes looked so lost though. Steve couldn't help frowning at that. He knew Bucky didn't know what to say or what to do next, and Steve wasn't sure he did either.

Then Bucky's stomach growled. Loudly. Steve had to laugh.

"Bucky, when was the last time you ate something substantial?" he asked.

Bucky's eyes darted downward. "I…" he trailed, as though he were searching his memory very hard and coming up with nothing.

"No problem. We can fix that," Steve said. "I've packed everything away, and don't have anything much left in the fridge, but there's this great place round the corner. Best pancakes I ever had. Good coffee too. We should have enough time before Sam gets here and—"

"Sam?" Bucky interrupted, his eyes having grown wider as Steve rattled off a little too quickly his plan for the morning, which he realized with a start when he really looked at Bucky.

"Sorry, I don't mean to get ahead of ourselves, but…food is a good start. The booths at this place are out of the way, secluded, I promise. And you remember Sam. From the hospital. And…before."

Bucky kept his eyes on the sheets between them. "I threw him into the cabinets," he said as though just then remembering. "I tore off one of his wings. I ripped a steering wheel from his hands…"

"It's okay, Buck," Steve said, reaching to place a warm hand on Bucky's metal forearm. "That's all okay. He understands. He's coming here today to help me move, all so we could go out and look for you. You don't have to worry about Sam. You'll like him."

"He talks a lot," Bucky murmured like an afterthought, his mouth a thin line as he stared now at Steve's hand on him.

"You used to too. Remember?" Steve said with a grin. "You'll get along great. He…reminded me a lot of you when we met, actually. He's been where we have, Bucky, right in the thick of it, before that mess with Hydra, as a soldier. He knows about beds that are too soft, and memories that won't fade, and what it feels like…to lose someone…." Steve felt the wetness rise in his eyes, any heated thoughts gone from his mind now, as well as his body. He had Bucky right there in front of him, but not fully, not yet. In some ways he was still so far away.

A flesh and blood fingertip touched the tear on his cheek before he even realized he'd shed it. He'd let his gaze drift, but now he looked forward and found icy…no, _warm_ blue.

"I didn't mean to push him into the cabinets," Bucky said, as if that were the most serious thing he'd ever uttered and he'd never been more heartfelt.

Steve let out a broken laugh. "He knows that, Buck. It was just reflex, just…self-preservation, even while you were risking your freedom watching out for me. But we'll work on that. You're here, right? We got through one night, we'll get through the next. Today we just have to start with breakfast." Steve flashed his most brilliant, hopeful smile, despite the remaining few tears that followed the first. Bucky wiped at them as well.

But he didn't move. Didn't nod or acknowledge what Steve had said—that it was time to get up, get ready, eat something more than unremembered scraps. He left his human hand there and fit it fully against Steve's cheek. It amazed Steve how quickly the heat returned to his gut just with Bucky's hand on him and their eyes locked.

Bucky leaned in first, like he had last night, but he stopped, a hair's breadth from Steve's lips as if daring him to finish the trek. Steve squeezed his eyes shut just enough to push the remaining tears down the premade tracks embedded in his skin, before he closed the gap. Bucky didn't taste like sour sleep, probably because Steve's mouth was the same; it was just warm, and smooth, and lazy, like they had all morning to stay in bed.

They did, if Steve wanted to, if Bucky wanted to. Sam wasn't expected until 10 AM.

Steve moved the hand on Bucky's arm up to his neck and held on, pulling his friend closer, kissing deeper, feeling the first tentative but still eager slide of tongues. Bucky shuddered; Steve felt it through his palm and fingertips. They both unconsciously shifted forward at the same time, and when the heat between them met, Steve gasped, "Bucky!"

"I wanted this…for so long, Stevie," Bucky said in that other voice—the part of him that was Bucky Barnes through and through. His warm breath was on Steve's neck again, and he sucked on Steve's skin like a teenager, right at the juncture of the curve of his jaw and ear.

Steve's hips surged forward as a shiver ran through him. "Me too, Buck. Me too." He slid his fingers up into Bucky's long hair, gently pressing into his scalp and holding Bucky's head there at the crook of his neck. Bucky's hips rocked forward with more subtle finesse than Steve's had. It pressed them together, slid them past each other, in a way that seemed almost obscene with thin, loose cotton between them. Soon, they were grinding like teenagers, like necking teenagers in the backseat of a borrowed car.

Like they were those same teenagers who had never tried to have this. Like it was the 30s again and they were starting over, but in a new world that would let them have what they wanted, embrace it even, and they'd never have to hide. It was better like this, Steve told himself. They never could have been together in their time, not safely. This was their chance. Now.

"I missed you so much," Steve said as he clung to Bucky, hips arching mindlessly against his friend's, with Bucky's lips moving hot and insistent down his neck as he thrust in kind. Bucky's human hand was crushed between them now, and he was hesitant to move the metal one, but soon, almost trembling, Steve felt it at his hip, and then slide around to his lower back where it pulled them tight together.

Steve had never done this. Not something this intimate. Not with anyone. He'd kissed girls as a smaller, frailer Steve Rogers. He'd parked a few handfuls of times. But that had never been like this, never so bold, never so needy. He'd been even less bold in this new age. He hadn't lied to Natasha; their impromptu kiss on the escalator wasn't his first since 1945—since Peggy—but it might as well have been for how much the few kisses he'd given and received had meant to him.

This was a want Steve had never allowed himself to feel, never imagined he'd give in to. Never imagined would feel so good.

Steve whimpered and he liked that it made him sound small. Sometimes he wished he could be the boy he once was, especially now so Bucky could hold all of him in his arms again with his head tucked under his chin—even a headlock was intimate then.

He was still that boy, even if he did dwarf Bucky now. He would always be that boy, that foolish boy who loved too hard and never took what he wanted for himself.

Bucky growled in response to Steve's whimper, and for a moment, it was feral, and wild, and he bit beneath Steve's ear where he'd been sucking. But it wasn't rough, it wasn't too hard. And just as Steve shuddered briefly with worry to hear that gruff sound in echo to his whimper, it was soon followed with, "You never knew how sexy you were…how beautiful…you crazy, wonderful _punk_."

Steve cried out and knew his nails dug more deeply than he meant to into Bucky's scalp as he came.

"Even then…_so much_ then," Bucky spoke on, thrusting against Steve's hip fervently to catch up, "…so beautiful…so sexy…I wanted to crowd you into every corner we passed…make you shudder…make you come just like this…"

"Bucky…" Steve gasped, feeling his face flush at those words—at Bucky _saying_ them.

"And when I first saw you bigger…that day when you rescued me…I wanted it just the same, and every day after…"

Bucky's release was silent, a quiet but harsher brush of air against Steve's ear. And then he relaxed, boneless, both of them panting and holding each other tightly.

"And now…now…" Bucky said, barely a whisper, "you gotta promise me…promise me, Steve…that I'm never going to wake up somewhere else."

A shaky breath left Steve, because he knew what Bucky really meant. Reality had been programmed into him for so long, he didn't trust what was right in front of him to be real, didn't trust that he'd stay himself.

"I promise, Bucky…no matter what happens," Steve said with firm conviction, cradling Bucky's head with his palm, embracing him and holding tight, "…you'll always wake up next to me."

Bucky pulled back with such force, Steve had a moment of panic before his friend's lips were on him, more demanding now as he hungrily cloyed at Steve's mouth as if for further validation. Steve gave back as good as he could, coiling his tongue with Bucky's like he'd never fully dared to with any dames, and feeling the slight burn of scruff against his own clean-shaven face.

When Bucky finally slowed, finally stilled and pulled away, he sighed like that answered everything he'd ever asked for. Then he stiffened and a bit of the assassin crept in, a bit of the coldness and the guilt. His eyes were still lost when he looked at Steve, but a corner of his mouth twitched with a smile—a smirk.

"I think we both need that shower now," Bucky said.

Steve laughed. "Yeah."

* * *

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I'm thinking this will be 6 parts in total now, with what I have planned. Things will get a little rockier in the next few chapters as Bucky remembers more, but I promise a happy ending.

Enjoy!

* * *

The first thing Steve thought when he rolled out of bed and stood was how uncomfortable it was to have released while still wearing his sleep pants, which were wet and sticky now on his skin. He grimaced.

"Actually, we should probably strip down right now. I have a bag in the corner there for dirty clothes I'll wait to wash once we're at Sam's. Or…I guess once we're in New York depending on what…we…" Steve trailed as he turned to see that Bucky had come around from his side of the bed and was already stripping out of his boxers.

The T-shirt did not drop low enough to cover him once the boxers were pulled down his legs. Sure, Steve had seen Bucky in the nude plenty back in the day without thinking much of it, and they'd been more than intimate a moment before, but this was different. Now Steve was allowed to look and feel the arousal that stirred in his gut. And it stirred slow and promising all over again as Bucky took the boxers in hand and used them to wipe himself off, lifting the T-shirt slightly to reveal his finely muscled stomach, stroking gently over his skin with the fabric.

Steve swallowed, feeling his cheeks flush, as Bucky walked to the bag he'd indicated and stuffed the dirty shorts inside. He lifted the T-shirt over his head and stuffed that into the bag as well. It was hardly a striptease, and yet Steve couldn't deny the reaction it caused in him to see Bucky bare.

But as his eyes lingered on the full expanse of Bucky's naked torso, his eyes were drawn to the metal arm, and the scarred shoulder he was seeing for the first time where metal met skin. It was the only scars on Bucky's body that he could see, but they were jagged and pronounced, a stark reminder of what he'd been through.

Steve frowned, his renewed arousal quickly dwindling.

He realized with a start that Bucky was staring back at him, his expression blank like it had been last night, hollow and on-edge.

"I'm sorry, Bucky, I just—"

"I'm going to take that shower," Bucky said quickly, moving for the door, and then gone before Steve had time to think. He rushed after Bucky once he realized his mistake, that of course Bucky would be uncomfortable with him staring like that, like there was something wrong with him—that's not how Steve had meant it. But when he reached the bathroom across the hall, the door closed in his face.

"Bucky…" He sighed, knowing he'd have to think of the right words once Bucky emerged. "Buck!" he called louder through the door. "There are towels under the sink, should be a couple! You can use my soap and everything!"

A muffled grunt responded that Steve took for affirmation, but Bucky didn't say anything else. Steve pressed a hand to the door. Bucky was still there, inside the bathroom. Steve could make that mistake up to him. There were bound to be other missteps, after all.

Steve sighed once more and pushed away from the door. He slipped his sleep pants off as he moved back into the bedroom, used them as Bucky had to wipe himself clean, then added them to the laundry bag. He didn't feel like putting on clothes until he was clean, so he grabbed one of the towels he'd already packed from the box of bathroom supplies and wrapped it around his waist. He doubted Bucky would take long in the shower, but he knew he couldn't sit still. He decided to take inventory one last time of his apartment, and see if he had forgotten to pack anything.

He'd need to move the boxes up by the door eventually, but everything seemed to be in place. Until he reached the dishwasher. He remembered instantly as he stared at it that he had put a load in that never got put away, and sure enough, when he pulled it open, he saw that it was full of dishes.

"Shoot… Guess I'll have to do that before we leave."

He thought of Sam and that he should probably let his friend know that plans had changed, at least a warning that Bucky was with him. He looked around for his cell phone. It was where it should be, with the charger jacked in, but as Steve snatched it up, he realized that the plug for the charger was not in the wall. His phone was dead. If he had a nickel…

The shower turned off, so Steve quickly plugged the charger in and headed back to the bathroom. He knocked.

"Hey, Buck! I left all my dishes in the washer. I'll have to pack those before we go or I know I'll forget them! But then we can grab some breakfast, okay?"

The door opened to reveal Bucky as a mirror image to Steve with a towel around his waist, dry now, though his hair still had water clinging to the longer strands. Steve's eyes strayed to the metal arm again before he could stop himself, the place on Bucky's shoulder where the arm connected with a sealant made of scar tissue.

Bucky flinched back, hunching in on himself, and looked as though he might shut the door in Steve's face again. Steve braced his arm against it.

"So your arm can get wet, huh? I didn't even think to offer you a bag or something." He grinned wistfully.

Bucky snorted and immediately uncurled, straightening his posture. "It would be pretty faulty equipment if I couldn't do missions in the rain, or keep myself clean," he said, and although the topic wasn't the nicest, he said it with a smile to match Steve's. They both chuckled. Bucky's was a softer, subtler sound than Steve remembered from the past, but he loved it anyway.

"I'm sorry the scars threw me, Bucky," Steve said gently. "I don't mind them. It just made me think of Hydra, and what they did to you, what I wasn't able to prevent because I couldn't save you—"

"What happened to me isn't your fault." There was a flash in Bucky's eyes, of anger, but of familiar anger that Steve had seen in his friend since they were just kids. Even then Steve never knew how to walk away from a fight. Bucky hated having to come to Steve's rescue, tend to his wounds, but he always did—always would.

"I know, Bucky," Steve said, though a part of him would always think otherwise, playing over again and again that day on the train and all the ways he might have done things differently. "We know who to blame. And whatever remains of them, we'll find them, and we'll make them pay for what they did to you."

"And for what they did to the _world_?" Bucky added with a crooked smile, teasing Steve.

Bucky _was_ the world.

"You first," Steve said plainly.

Bucky's smile dropped, but he didn't look lost or angry, just contemplative, maybe even peaceful, which wasn't so bad an expression. His hair was still dripping, and as they stood there staring at each other, not yet saying anything more, a few drops slid onto Bucky's cheeks and down his face.

Rather than brush the water away, Bucky twitched and blinked around it, then allowed a glance with his sharp eyes from the top of Steve's head all the way down to his toes, and gave a mischievous smirk. He snatched the towel from around Steve's waist with his metal hand, which moved faster than should be possible. As Steve squeaked and instinctively tried to cover himself, Bucky used the towel he'd stolen to dry his hair. He made a show of looking Steve up and down again as he did so, until Steve, blushing much redder now, slowly moved his hands to his sides.

Bucky waggled an eyebrow at him appreciatively, and it was just so _Bucky_, so much like the friend Steve had lost, that he had to laugh.

"Shower's all yours, pal," Bucky said as he sidestepped Steve out of the bathroom, still keeping the towel and patting at his hair. "Huh…"

"What?" Steve prompted, holding the bathroom door before entering, and trying not to feel as exposed as he felt, standing there naked in front of his best friend.

"Nothin'," Bucky said, "just don't remember ever getting a good look before—you in this body. You're still proportional." He winked.

Steve felt his cheeks darken to shades that would put a gal's rouge to shame. "Jerk."

Bucky's smile widened. "Hey…I can…empty the dishwasher while you shower. I don't mind. It'll save us time. Breakfast sounds good." His stomach refrained from reminding them of his hunger with another growl, but the need for food was implied.

"Thanks, Buck. I'll try to be quick. The box in the kitchen still has room for the rest of the dishes. You can use that one." He lingered with his hand on the door, feeling a little more confident this time when Bucky's eyes darted down the length of him and up again. He paused a moment more and smiled before closing the door behind him.

XXXXX

Bucky stared at the clothes Steve had refrained from packing just yet, deciding finally on a pair of jeans he was fairly certain Steve never wore since Bucky had always seen him in khakis when out of uniform, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that he had the suspicion Steve had hung up just for him out of one of the boxes, because it wasn't Steve's style at all, and looked too deep a black and new to have been worn and washed before. Bucky appreciated the sleeves.

Once he was dressed, he went to his pile of clothing from the night before. After setting his various weapons on Steve's nightstand—he wasn't sure what to do with them, though his instincts were to tuck them around his body somewhere—and stuffed his clothing into Steve's laundry bag.

He passed the bathroom to attend to the dishes and heard Steve humming in the shower. It was strange how Bucky's current memories seemed so sharp, like memories of their recent fights, of last night, and yet his older memories were still hazy, but he recognized the song Steve was humming as the one Sam Wilson had been playing when Steve woke up in the hospital. Bucky had been there too. He'd liked the music choices the talkative airman played, though he'd never said so.

As he stepped into the living room, he realized how many pieces of Steve's furniture had an aged look to them, as if Steve had purposely plowed through garage sales to find items as old as he was. It soothed Bucky, and as he looked around the room, at the boxes, at the cityscape beyond, able to hear the sounds of traffic outside, even though it wasn't the same city…suddenly it was New York 1940, and they'd just moved in to their first shared apartment.

Bucky smiled. The place would suit them fine while he worked odd jobs to pay the rent and Stevie worked on his art. He'd make it with his talent yet. Steve wasn't meant for dock work. He wanted to draw superheroes. He wanted to tell grand stories that their simple lives only knew at the movies, or in books, or in the comics he collected with that new Batman character he was always going on about.

Steve wanted to change the world with stories, so even though his talent was in the art, he always seemed to get himself into situations where he was trying to change the world with words, and that always led to fists that hit harder than he could take. That kid would take on the world itself if he could only make it better, so it was Bucky's job to make sure he did that with stories instead of fists, to make sure Steve stayed safe.

Bucky heard the shower going. He'd forgotten Steve was in there, couldn't quite remember what they were going to do today, or when he was supposed to head to work, but just as he turned his head to call out to Steve…he saw the bullet holes in the walls that he'd made when he shot Nick Fury.

It was 2014. Bucky didn't have a job to get to. Steve wasn't an artist. Steve had fists bigger than any that had ever struck him, and now he could fight back. Only Bucky didn't like that now any more than he had in 1940. He hoped Steve still drew.

He shook his head and continued into the kitchen to empty the dishwasher. He'd never used one, though he understood how they worked. They hadn't gone mainstream until after the war, he was pretty sure. It wasn't difficult to pry the dry dishes out, wrap them in the newspaper Steve had laid out, and place them carefully in the mostly empty box in the kitchen. He was done before he heard the shower turn off.

Except for one item, which he hadn't noticed at first, tucked into a special compartment for knives. It was a large, sharp knife for cutting meat, and he tried not to tremble as his fingers curled around the handle to pull it free.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Hey, Steve! Sorry I'm early man. I texted, even called, but you never answered. Everything okay?"

The Winter Soldier tightened his grip on the knife. He recognized the voice—one of his target's associates. He was in his target's apartment, though he couldn't remember why. Reconnaissance probably. It wasn't the first time he'd lost his train of thought when on a mission. Reset had side effects sometimes. But he remembered his mission now.

Neutralize Captain America at all costs. Neutralize anyone who gets in the way of the mission's prime directive.

A key turned in the lock and the door began to open. The Winter Soldier stepped out of the kitchen so he had clean line of sight to the front door. A flick of his wrist and he could place the blade square between the target's eyes—mission accomplished—and then he could focus on finding his true target.

"Steve? I'm using my key, man, you got me worried now!"

The door opened slowly, the man on the other side calculating the level of threat, and why the captain was not answering. The Winter Soldier readied the knife in his hand as the door pushed open fully, revealing the Falcon—the man with the metal wings. The Winter Soldier remembered him. He was a threat only in flight, and even then could be easily dispatched.

"Oh shit…" the Falcon swore, eyes wide, reflexes too slow to react to the danger he was in until it was too late.

"Bucky, did I hear the door?"

Bucky gasped, his grip loosening on the knife. He looked at it sharply. He wanted to drop it, but he didn't want Steve to know how shaken he was. He shifted the knife in his grip instead so that he held it with the blade pointing down.

He looked back at Sam Wilson, still wide-eyed at the door.

"I was…emptying the dishwasher," he said, his voice sounding rough and strange to him. "Steve forgot about it."

Sam opened his mouth to comment, but nothing came out. His shoulders relaxed but his stance remained wary.

Just then, Steve came of the hallway at a quick pace, holding a new towel around his waist, and looking mostly still damp. "Buck?" His eyes snapped to Sam. "Sam! What are you doing here? I wasn't expecting you until 10."

"I, uhh…" Sam's brain seemed to have a moment of reset of its own. Then his posture relaxed fully upon seeing that Steve wasn't hurt—or dead. "Hey, man, yeah…I tried your phone but you didn't answer. The movers said it's a crazy weekend, and that if we didn't secure a truck earlier, they might all be out by 10, so I headed right over. Guess that's…all kinda moot at this point, huh?" His eyes flitted to Bucky. But Bucky couldn't look back at him. He lowered the knife and his gaze followed it, until he was looking half at the floor, half at the blade.

"Shoot, sorry, I forgot to plug my phone in. It's fine. Uh…Bucky?"

Bucky flinched at the feeling of Steve's hand on his shoulder; it was warm from the shower. Bucky trembled as Steve reached for his hand—for the knife in his hand. "Sorry…" he whispered.

"For what, Buck? Here…I have a guard for that." Steve's fingers curled around his for a moment to take the knife. Bucky relinquished it gladly. Once the knife was out of his hand, he risked a glance up. Sam was studying him warily, but he flashed a smile when their eyes met, more curious than accusing.

Bucky turned and backed toward the kitchen to watch Steve dig for the guard he'd mentioned, sheath the knife carefully, and then pack it with the other dishes. Sam entered the kitchen from the other side closer to the front door, so that Steve was between them.

Steve regarded them both with a nervous smile when he stood up straight. He held his towel carefully, and looked like he really wanted to not be standing practically naked in his kitchen right now, but there were questions in the air that threatened to make this far more awkward.

"Sam, you…remember Bucky," Steve said, and then winced as he realized what a ridiculous introduction that was.

"Yeah, pretty hard to forget," Sam smirked. "Also pretty sure this is the easiest assignment I ever had, since our mission was to find him. Thanks for that, man," he nodded at Bucky. "So…do I wanna ask how this went down? Don't see any new bullet holes."

Steve frowned.

"I came last night," Bucky said, quiet but direct, his eyes on Sam though somewhat sideways. "And I stayed. I'm staying." It wasn't a challenge, just a promise, which Sam seemed to take as good news since he nodded and offered a friendlier smile.

"Awesome, man. If we'd had money on this, I'd owe your pal there. I'll admit, I thought it was going to be tough, figured what they did to you meant you weren't the man Steve was looking for anymore. Never thought I'd be so glad to be wrong." His smile really was infectious.

So Bucky smiled back, but he felt something gnaw deep in his gut, because he wasn't the man Steve had been looking for, not fully, not anymore.

He could have killed Sam.

He felt Steve's arm on his shoulder again and realized he'd let his smile drop. He valiantly pulled it back on. "I'm fine," he said, because he could see the questioning in Steve's eyes. "Get dressed, star-spangled man, you're embarrassing me. And I'm hungry, remember? Sam will just have to join us for breakfast." He cast his best smile at Sam again, but he knew he fell short.

Sam didn't seem to mind, seemed to accept it in a way that surprised Bucky, like the man knew how to see through people, read people—people who had lost their way.

Steve laughed. "Okay, okay. I'll change quick. You two…" he glanced at Sam, "…you'll be okay?"

"I think if the guy spent the night without any trouble, he can stand my company for two minutes while you get your drawers on, Cap," Sam said easily. "We'll be fine."

Bucky wished he could agree, but as soon as Steve disappeared down the hallway, he felt his anxiety return. Just from holding the knife he'd been drawn back to before his memories started to return, to the mission. If Steve hadn't jolted him back…

"I'm Sam Wilson, since we were never formally introduced," Sam broke the awkward silence with an outstretched hand. They were still in the kitchen.

"I…I'm James Barnes," Bucky said, wondering for a moment how long it had been since he'd said that out loud.

"Only Steve gets to call you Bucky?" Sam asked with a smirk as they shook hands.

Bucky thought a moment then let out a shaky chuckle. "No, I…I prefer Bucky."

"Well, then, Bucky, it's nice to finally meet you on friendlier terms. You had Steve quite the wreck lately, ya know?"

"Yeah…I…" Bucky lowered his eyes, then forced himself to look at Sam directly, to catalogue the man's face and remind his brain, however shattered—not a target, _not a target_. "I'm sorry. For the cabinets. And the wing. And the steering wheel." He listed them each deliberately, though he was pretty sure there was more he should apologize for.

For the knife…

"It's fine, man. It really is. I mean, I still got bruises from the cabinet thing. I ain't no fast healing super soldier like you two," Sam laughed and punched Bucky's arm lightly to show he was kidding, though it was the metal arm and Sam immediately grimaced despite not having hit that hard. "Shoot, gotta remember that," he said, and shook his hand out.

"Sorry…"

"Nothing to be sorry for, Bucky."

"Hey," Steve reentered, having dressed in record time, in khakis now, of course, a white T-shirt, dark jacket, and with two ball caps in his hands. One was Bucky's. "If you want it. You don't have to, but…"

"It's smart for now, while we're in the city," Bucky said, accepting the hat. His hair was still a little damp as he slid the hat in place, but he didn't mind. "You probably can't go anywhere without gals and fellas asking for your autograph, huh?"

Steve smiled but shook his head. "Not everyone recognizes me, Bucky," he said as he slid his hat on as well. "Just a precaution."

"Bull _shit_, Cap," Sam said with a harder smack to Steve's arm than he'd tried with Bucky. "But you can't always luck out and run into a fine gentleman like me who'd rather trip you up as you lap him the dozenth time than get a signature. I'll have to tell you that story, Bucky, how Steve and I met. Never heard yours actually, though I'll bet it had something to do with keeping his wiry ass out of trouble." Sam led Bucky smoothly through the kitchen with a kind hand at his back, leaving Steve in the dust.

Bucky realized he liked this man instantly. "You obviously know him well," he snarked.

"Uh, come on, fellas, you don't get to gang up on me now," Steve called from behind them.

"Sure we do. So what's the plan, boys?" Sam asked once they were out of the apartment.

"Breakfast," Steve said, "then we'll call Stark. He's been bugging me about moving to the tower for ages. Maybe we can get right on a plane for New York, Bucky, and get all my things moved there instead. What do you say?"

All Bucky could think, all he wanted to think was _Steve_—Steve would ground him, wherever they went; Steve would make sure he never lost himself enough to hurt someone again. As long as he was with Steve, he could be okay. It would be okay.

"Yeah, pal," Bucky said, liking the sound of New York, however it might have changed since he last remembered it, "let's go home."

If there was an echo of worry in his chest that Steve might not be enough to keep the monster inside of him at bay, Bucky chose not to listen to it.

* * *

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This one gets a little intense. :-) I think it's heading the right direction, and I haven't lost my obsession over Bucky yet, so you can bet I'll finish this with the planned remaining chapters. Still thinking it will be 6 chapters total.

Enjoy!

* * *

Breakfast passed uneventfully for the most part—aside from the pancakes, which were spectacular, as far as Bucky's memory served him. Between Steve and Sam and constant conversation to focus on, Bucky never once slipped from the strange amalgamation of himself that he had become into his separate personas. He wasn't Bucky from the 40s, or the Winter Soldier, he was both and that was okay. He just had to keep reminding himself of that.

So when Steve excused himself to use the bathroom as they waited for the bill, Bucky tried so hard not to panic. He set his napkin on top of his plate so it obscured the butter knife—he knew what he was capable of with even the dullest blade.

When he glanced up at Sam across from him—Steve had sat on the outside of the booth with Bucky, boxing him in comfortably in the corner—he saw the comprehension on the other man's face.

"Hey, man, it's okay," Sam said in a gentle, hushed voice over the table. "I know it's not even remotely the same, but…I do know a little of what you're going through—a soldier out of place. And it's good to have an anchor, something that reminds you of where and when you are, but if you let yourself depend too much on Steve, you'll set yourself up to lose focus every time he leaves the room."

Bucky gaped. He didn't think he was that easy to read, but he'd learned that Sam had experience with understanding soldiers and trauma; he should have been more guarded. But he realized as he stared back at Sam that he didn't want to be guarded.

"I…I know that. But I…I've been having these…episodes." He paused to await Sam's reaction, but the Falcon kept his gaze and expression steady, patiently waiting for him to go on. "Sometimes I forget where I am. _Who_ I am. Sometimes it's like…like I never even left for the war, and I'm stuck in a memory—usually good ones, so I don't mind that part so much. But other times…I'm _him_," he said, not having to elaborate on who he meant. "I have a mission, and nothing else matters. When I wake up, I remember everything either of them thought or did, but when I'm _them_…they only remember themselves. Steve…he keeps me here. He keeps me…_me_."

Sam nodded, his expression never once judging, only calm understanding as he listened. Then his eyes widened despite himself as something dawned on him. "Uhh…just how close was I to being a casualty back there? When I came in with the key?"

Bucky stared straight ahead, not wanting to say the truth out loud.

Sam swallowed. "Shit. You have to tell Steve, Bucky. With a lot of this, talking really is the best medicine, it'll help, but what you're going through, losing time and self… I'm no authority on multiple personalities—you'll have to see what Stark and Banner say when you meet 'em—and your situation is so unique…maybe it's temporary, just a side effect of getting your memories back and your brain doesn't know what to do with it all yet. But you gotta tell Steve, so he's prepared. I don't think you're dangerous, man, I really don't. But the Winter Soldier…"

Bucky let his eyes drop to the table. The Winter Soldier was a monster. A machine. An asset without a soul. He'd felt so empty for so long, and part of him hated that he felt more than that now, felt everything again, because it hurt, the loss and grief and guilt. But the rest of him didn't care if it was painful, if it was difficult; he'd do anything to keep the part of him that was finally home.

As Bucky stared at his napkin, he felt Sam's hand reach across the table and settle on his metal wrist. His sensors allowed him to feel the pressure, and it was somehow more comforting than feeling skin on skin.

"Steve said you lost someone once," Bucky said softly, gaugingly. "Like us."

"Yeah…"

"Were you…I mean, how…close were you?"

When Sam paused, Bucky looked up again and saw the confusion on Sam's face until his meaning registered with the other man. Sam tapped his fingers against Bucky's wrist. "_Oh_. Not like that, man. I loved the guy, but like brothers. He was my best friend, but not my lover or anything. Doesn't mean the loss was any less, of course. Why do you…?" he trailed until, once again, his dark eyes widened with realization. "_Oh_."

Steve chose that moment to return from the bathroom, and Sam's hand slid back across the table. Bucky shifted in his seat, afraid he had revealed something he shouldn't have, but as Steve settled into the booth again, his smile bright as the damn sun outside when he looked at Bucky, a knowing smile spread across Sam's face, and Bucky knew the man understood that the feeling was mutual, which seemed to be the only thing he'd been concerned about.

Steve noticed Sam's smile. "What?"

"Nothin', man, nothin'. Just finally startin' to understand why Nat's matchmaking skills were so lost on you." Sam winked, and took the bill from the waitress as she brought it before Steve could.

Steve blinked obliviousness almost the entire time while Sam paid, before he finally reddened as dark as Bucky had seen him blush that morning.

Once the waitress thanked them and headed off, and they made for the door, Sam just laughed and smacked Steve on the shoulder. He hovered back with Bucky a moment though, and whispered, "I'm happy for you, man, both of you, but all the same…you tell Steve what's up, and find as many things as you can other than him to anchor yourself with. If it's all about him, being away from him, even for a second, is just asking for triggers. You'll be all right."

Bucky wasn't as confident; he didn't think Sam was as confident as he was feigning either, because something this serious was usually dealt with doctors or padded rooms, but Sam knew better than to suggest that. Maybe Stark Tower—Avengers Tower—had its own padded rooms. If Bucky got worse instead of better, maybe he'd be sent away; maybe they'd _take him_ from Steve.

Bucky stuffed his hands into his pockets as they walked, taking a few deep breaths as he followed a pace behind Steve and Sam down the sidewalk. It was early in his recovery, he told himself. He hadn't even been sure he wanted to recover a day ago. But being around Steve had brought so much more to the surface of his mind than their earlier fights, or the Smithsonian. He wanted every bit he could get back. If nothing else, _that_ could be his anchor—his god damn stubbornness and determination.

XXXXX

"You're the best, Tony, I mean it," Steve said into his cell phone as they headed back to his apartment.

Five minutes into the conversation, Tony had already promised his own movers to pick up Steve's things, bring them to the airport, and get them right on a plane to New York—and life at the tower. Steve refrained from saying anything about Stark obviously having been denied enough sleepovers as a kid.

"That'll be up to Bucky," Steve said when Tony went into a ramble about Bucky's arm, and the tech, and maybe there were trackers he should search for, and wouldn't it look nice red—which Tony had already threatened/promised to color Sam's new wings once they were done.

Steve cast Bucky an apologetic glance. Bucky could easily hear the conversation, not only one sided, given his sharp hearing, but he merely shrugged.

"I don't mind," Bucky said. "We gotta be safe; he can check for trackers. Just…no metal chairs."

Steve frowned. Bucky hadn't elaborated on anything Hydra had done to him—yet—but Steve had seen the file; he knew the cold facts, and it made him want to punch something repeatedly. He struggled not to squeeze his phone too hard; he'd already lost a couple that way.

"Huh? Oh, sorry, Tony, yeah, yeah, we can get something arranged once we're there, but nothing that makes Bucky uncomfortable. You can put glitter on his arm for all I care, as long as he wants it too." He smirked at Bucky.

Bucky flipped him the bird—with his metal arm.

Steve laughed. "Huh?" He didn't mean to keep getting distracted but Bucky kept stealing his attention. His smile quickly vanished again as Tony spoke on, not because he was angry to hear the words, he was grateful, but it was a heavy topic, one he knew they couldn't avoid. He'd been the one to tell Tony what was in Bucky's file, after all…about his parents.

He paused just outside his building, knowing Bucky could hear every word Tony said.

"_You got that, Cap? You tell RoboCop that if he even tries to apologize or say a word about it, other than an anthem to kick Hydra's ass in their honor, I'm turning him right back out on the street. I will. He has nothing to apologize for. All I know is that Hydra didn't just take my parents, they took my good friend's _best_ friend and made him a part of it, and that is unforgiveable—on _them_. Starbuck is welcome anytime, anywhere, as long as he gets that through his brain-washed head…okay?"_

Steve bit back a sour smile, especially when Bucky gave a slow nod from beside him—which meant he remembered; he remembered killing Howard and his wife. Sam, who couldn't hear Stark's side of the conversation, merely tilted his head.

"Yeah, Tony, I hear you. And so does Bucky. We really owe you one."

"_For making me turn this place into an old folks home? Coz that really harshes the tower's image."_

"_Goodbye_, Tony."

"_And don't forget to ask him about the color—"_

Steve clicked his phone shut. He preferred a flip phone to smart phones that barely fit in his pants' pocket, plus he found it easier to hang up on people that way. He looked at Bucky and mustered a smile, which Bucky returned like a champ. It really was amazing how much progress he was making already.

"All right, you two," Sam said, "I better head on out if I'm gonna get things settled here in D.C."

"You won't join us at the tower?" Steve turned to him.

"You're not ready for me yet anyway. Stark owes me a new set of wings first. Besides, I have a life here I'm still closing up. Once I've sorted things with the house, the VA…I'll be expecting my own _floor_ at the tower." He grinned his usual wide grin and held out a hand toward Steve. They clasped hands only to both pull in for a quick one-armed embrace before they parted.

Sam shook hands with Bucky a little more reserved, but still with a welcoming smile.

It was with a strangely lighter step that Steve and Bucky ascended the steps to his apartment. Getting things out of the way with Stark was a relief. Knowing they would be out of D.C. in less than an hour was even more so. Steve couldn't help missing New York whenever he was away from it, much as D.C. had been home lately.

"Okay, Buck, we just need to get everything by the door for the movers when they get here, and then we'll be on our way to home sweet home before you know it." Steve felt damn near invincible right now, and knew he was beaming brightly when he turned back to Bucky and his old friend shook his head at him with a bemused smirk.

"You're still a bit like a lab pup when you get riled up, aren't you?" Bucky teased him, head slightly tilted down so that he looked up at Steve from beneath the rim of his hat.

Steve grabbed the bill of the hat and tossed it onto the sofa. He tossed his own there to join it. Bucky promptly shook out his still damp hair, that hadn't dried properly being so long and stuck under the cap, then ran his fingers through it. Steve liked the way it curled at the ends as it dried.

"You want to move some of the boxes in here to the front while I clean out the bedroom?" Steve asked.

"Sure." Bucky slid past him close enough for his flesh and blood arm to brush Steve's chest as he moved for the sofa and the many boxes around it.

Steve chuckled at the familiarity of it, how many times he remembered Bucky doing that when they were younger—even during the war—and he'd always dismissed it as wishful thinking. Now he knew better, and savored the contact.

He moved to his room quickly, eager to have the rest of his packing done so they could sit in peace while they waited for the movers. He started grabbing his remaining clothes out of the closet first.

"Hey, is this whole box filled with sketchbooks?" Bucky called from the living room.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"I saw some at the Smithsonian. Why didn't you ask for those back?"

"I donated them. Most of those I didn't like anyway. I kept the ones I love." Meaning, he'd kept all of the ones he'd ever done of Bucky, plus a few others he was particularly proud of. Mostly the ones the Smithsonian had were from his art classes—boring landscapes and fruit bowls. Steve's favorite work was always done outside the classroom.

"What about your furniture?" Bucky asked.

"Most was from S.H.I.E.L.D."

"You mean you _didn't_ hit every garage sale from here to the Washington Monument for some of these antiques?"

Steve laughed. "I got to pick some of it out, but I'm leaving it for the next tenant. I'm keeping the record player though, and a few other things. As for the rest, I don't mind if the next owner sells it all, really."

"Sofa's not too comfy anyway," Bucky muttered.

Steve laughed again, tempted to mention something about how it was good Bucky hadn't had to sleep on it then. A few minutes passed with Steve packing up the rest of his bedroom, about ready to start carrying out boxes, when Bucky called again.

"You always draw so much of me, Stevie?"

Steve fought a blush. "Hey," he called back, "you working or loafing out there!"

"These are all so good, pal. Really. I know you'll get a job in comics with these. You'll be rich before you know it, and never have to worry about missed heat or water bills the rest of your life."

The blood drained from Steve's face as he stood up—without the box he had been about to lift. He walked slowly into the hallway.

"Hey, what's this one? I don't remember seeing this one before. You do this one in class today?"

Steve's hand shook a little as he reached for the archway of the living room, peering around at Bucky on the couch, with that box of sketchbooks pulled close to him, and one in his lap. He was on the last page, something Steve had done to fill the book before getting a new one, so it had gone from an entry in 1939 to one just last year, but he didn't mind it being out of order. It was of Bucky, like most of that book, only this time Steve had tried to get Bucky just as he'd remembered him the last time he saw him before going after Zola.

Bucky's brow was furrowed as he traced the lines of his uniform and his finger landed on the date at the bottom. "2013…" he said in confusion. His eyes turned to Steve, sensing he was there, and widened, his voice small as he said, "When'd you get so tall…?"

"Bucky…" Steve didn't know what to say. So he just moved into the room, stepped over the boxes in the way, and sat beside his friend. He placed his hand on Bucky's shoulder and squeezed. Steve saw the change in Bucky then, the shift in his eyes, as he came back to himself and remembered where he was.

Bucky's eyes darted to the picture again.

"I was missing you," Steve said, as if to explain the drawing. He'd missed Bucky a lot, every day; he'd have a dozen more sketchbooks filled if he'd drawn Bucky every time he felt that way. "Bucky…do you—"

"It's 2014, I'm Bucky Barnes, we're in Washington D.C., and in half an hour there are gonna be movers here to take us to New York," Bucky rattled off, as if he needed to remind himself more than anything. "I know who I am, Steve, where I am, what's happening…but sometimes I forget." His eyes remained on the sketch of himself, a different Bucky from a time long lost.

Steve squeezed Bucky's shoulder again. "We'll sort it out. Stark and Banner, they're the smartest men I've ever met. They can help, make sure you're okay, see what can be done to help as you recover. And if it's meant to be months of slow progress, or years, well that's just fine, I'll be here, right beside you." Steve realized that Bucky was on his left—again. He smiled, and he was grateful for it, because when Bucky looked up at him, he smiled too.

"Sorry," Bucky said, "I told Sam, and he told me to tell you, but…I did so well at breakfast, I thought maybe it wouldn't happen again."

"Don't expect so much of yourself, Bucky," Steve said. "Most people wouldn't be doing half this well after what you've been through. One day—one _night_ at a time—remember? Here, let me get these boxes by the door, and you can help bring the ones over from the bedroom. Okay?"

Bucky visibly relaxed at being given another task, as well as from Steve's gentle words of comfort. "Yeah. I just need to stay focused. I'm okay."

Steve pat Bucky once more on the shoulder then thought better of his action and instead leaned forward. Bucky met him easily, gratefully, halfway for a simple press of lips. Then another, just to be sure it was okay, that they were there, both of them real. Even though Steve might never say so out loud, he needed to be reminded of reality once in a while too.

He smiled when they pulled apart, catching a soft smile on Bucky's face to mirror him.

"I'm glad you still draw," Bucky said. "I want…" he looked down like he wasn't sure if it was okay to voice the rest of his thoughts, "…I…want to know you're happy with all this."

"With you?"

"With life."

Steve fell silent. He could honestly say no one had ever asked him that. Certainly not since he woke up from his deep-freeze. But it only took him a moment to answer. "I am. I know that, back during the war, we always figured that once it was over we'd just go home, go back to normal lives, and maybe we would have. But I always could have told S.H.I.E.L.D. no when I woke up and they wanted me to work for them and still serve this country. I didn't. I'm good at this. I like helping people. When it gets bad, when I need a break from it all…I still draw, and listen to music, catch a movie, run or go for walks; all the simple things I used to love. It's been…lonely. Not knowing how to relate to most people. It's taken me a while to get past that part. But with Sam, and others, like Tony and Nat…and _you_. Especially having you back, Bucky, you have no idea…it feels like I don't have anything not to be happy about anymore."

Steve met Bucky's gaze to find the former assassin staring back at him, almost too intently at first, a little empty looking, blank—then he smiled, wider than Steve had yet seen, with a look that was true happiness, and all merely because Steve had said _he_ was happy. Well, Bucky had his work cut out for him, because it worked the same way in reverse.

Steve nudged Bucky in the side before he got up. "Now we just have to make sure you're happy too. Don't feel you need to rush it. These things take time."

For a moment it looked as though Bucky was going to insist that he was happy, but while a little of that may be true, at least in the way he looked at Steve, it wasn't the whole truth, not yet. So he simply nodded before standing from the sofa as well.

Steve tried not to let the worry get to him as they parted, him to repack the sketchbooks and bring the living room boxes to the door, and Bucky to the bedroom now, but he did worry—how Bucky, for a moment, had been his friend again, the old friend he'd lost. He didn't want that Bucky back at the cost of who Bucky had become though. For all Hydra had done to him, he deserved to be the sum of his parts.

Everything seemed to go smoothly after that, until Steve was certain he'd moved every box or item he planned to take with him to just inside the door, and Bucky was nearly done with everything from the bedroom, which didn't leave anything other than Steve's bathroom supplies, and that wasn't much either.

"Anything else, Bucky?" Steve called from the edge of the kitchen.

"One last box!"

A gunshot rang out.

Steve tensed, looking for the source, for bullet holes. Then his mind caught up to him and he realized that it hadn't been the sound of a bullet—he knew that sound well—but a car backfiring outside. He let out the breath he'd been holding. As often as that happened, it always made him stiffen.

The silence in the apartment caught his attention next.

"Bucky?"

No answer came.

Steve moved down the hallway with deliberate caution yet still as swiftly as he could. When he reached the bedroom door, he peered inside checking for intruders, even though he knew it hadn't really been a gun firing.

No Bucky.

Steve dashed into the room without thinking and in a flash found himself pinned face-first to the wall, not even sure where the Winter Soldier had come from, but he knew it was _him_, not Bucky; he knew the way this felt.

"Bucky, it's me! You're not—!"

The Winter Soldier's metal hand pinned Steve's left wrist behind him and broke the bones with a loud snap.

"Bucky!" Steve cried again, blinking past the pain. It was more difficult than he would ever admit, finding the right balance in himself to fight the Winter Soldier without truly hurting him. When Steve was on a mission, he never had to hold himself back, but with _Bucky_, it's all he thought about. It's why he'd given up before—he'd rather die than kill Bucky, than hurt his friend.

So it was a tense balancing act that tried every ounce of Steve's nerve and abilities, dropping his center of gravity so that the Winter Soldier lost his firm grip on him, spinning and twisting free so he could block the blow that came at him with his right hand, still favoring his left.

"Bucky, I'm not your mission! I'm your friend. I'm Steve. I love—"

The metal fist cracked against Steve's jaw. Steve sprawled back, striking the wall he'd been pinned against, and looked up sharply to ready himself for the next attack. But in that moment, as the Winter Soldier strode forward with fierce determination, their eyes met…and _Bucky_ stopped cold.

The horror, the terror and grief that filled Bucky's face was immediate and jarring. He dropped to the floor, tearing his eyes from Steve as he held his head in his hands and twisted his fingers in his hair—pulling.

Nothing else mattered as Steve dropped in front of Bucky and tried to gather him into his arms. "Bucky, it's—" but he didn't get even a full sentence out before Bucky was on him, throwing him down onto the floor, grabbing his left wrist, and snapping it back into place.

As Steve cried out again, before he had time to realize that Bucky had set his wrist to _fix it_, Bucky leapt up and dashed out into the hallway.

"Bucky! Bucky, stop!" Steve was up a moment later, ignoring his throbbing wrist that was already healing, or the dull pain in his jaw that was fading too, and chased after Bucky with a surge of everything he had held back while fighting. Tears were in his eyes, but not from the pain, not from the blows.

He couldn't let Bucky run. He couldn't let Bucky _leave_ him.

Finding his friend already at the door as he burst into the living room, Steve cried out after him, "Bucky, please! Please don't go! We can fix this, please…please don't leave. I can't do this without you, Bucky. I tried, and I _can't_…I can't. I'd rather you killed me than lose you again."

Bucky whirled around before his hand could reach the doorknob, moving lightning fast back across the living room, faster than Steve could react to with tears blurring his vision, until he found himself once again pushed against the wall, the corner of the living room entrance biting into his back as Bucky held him there. Tears filled Bucky's eyes too as he screamed in Steve's face, furious, almost hysterical.

"Don't say that! Don't you ever say that!"

He pounded Steve's chest with both fists, but the blows were weak. He held all his weight forward, against Steve, but he merely pressed, like he might push Steve through the wall.

"Don't you ever…say that," he said again, choked on it. His eyes drifted away from Steve's, his fists sliding down Steve's chest, and when his knees gave way, Steve knew to catch him, and they crumbled together to the floor.

This time when Steve gathered Bucky into his arms, Bucky accepted it, fell against Steve and let himself be cradled in the large arms that wrapped around him. Steve's sobs stilled to just tears streaming down his cheeks, while Bucky's sobs were audible, dulled only by his face pressing into Steve's chest. He clutched at Steve's shirt, dug his face in deep, and cried.

Steve held on tighter. "It's you and me, Buck…" he said softly, heart in his voice, he knew, but he didn't care. "Together…we can do this. But I told you, _I told you_, I'm happy, really happy, because I have you back."

Bucky didn't reply at first, struggling to get his sobs under control, until finally he sniffled as he turned his face to the side, still pressing one cheek against Steve. "I keep…hurting you." Gently, shaking, his metal hand sought Steve's recently broken wrist and tentatively touched the bruises that were already fading.

"Only way you could ever hurt me, Bucky, is if you left," Steve said into the top of Bucky's hair, that was dry now but still smelled of shampoo. "You made me promise you'd always wake up with me, remember? Now you gotta offer the same."

Bucky was silent again for a long time, while they held each other on the floor of Steve's apartment and their tears dried. Steve didn't feel any tension in Bucky's body that told him his friend would run again if he let go, and yet he didn't want to let Bucky up yet, wanted to hold on as long as he could. So he did. It was only when Bucky looked up at him, eyes rimmed in red but so full of warmth, that Steve finally relaxed.

"Okay…okay…" Bucky said, "but we better get a hold of ourselves now, because if those movers get here and find us like this…I might have to kill them."

Steve laughed, even though it wasn't very funny, but then Bucky laughed too, and suddenly none of it seemed to matter as much, or seemed as bad as it had a moment before. Steve knew there was a long road ahead, knew he'd gotten ahead of himself with how easy it might be, despite everything he'd said to Bucky about not expecting so much of himself. It was a long road indeed, maybe the longest they'd ever travelled, but Steve still didn't doubt for a second that as long as they travelled it together, everything would be okay.

So if he couldn't bring himself to let Bucky out of his sight after that, even when the movers came and they helped them carry down the boxes, well…that wasn't only for Bucky's sake, and he didn't try to hide that at all.

* * *

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: One more after this! It's been really fun working on my take of how things would play out once Bucky is recovered and meets the others, and Bucky struggling with his personalities and memories too. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Bucky didn't mind flying. He wasn't sure if he minded anything that normal people might have a phobia about. He had memories of performing feats that would have made him nauseous back during the war, despite being so quick to follow after Steve onto that train. Now, nothing as mundane as being in a plane could phase him. He'd been through so much worse. And part of him was fairly certain that if worst came to worst, he'd have no trouble surviving a plane crash.

Stark had sent the most ostentatious plane to pick them up. Large enough to fit Steve's entire apartment even if he had taken all the furniture, and complete with snacks, a bar, and a cute stewardess that Steve politely told didn't need to wait on them for what was only an hour long flight. She'd retreated to the cabin after that, which Bucky was grateful for. He'd enjoyed Sam's company, but he was concerned about being around others—people other than Steve.

Steve sat down next to him on what was more like a cushy bench than a seat on a plane, and didn't have its own seatbelts, though they had separate seats for that once the plane started its descent. It allowed them to sit side by side for now, their thighs just barely brushing. Bucky released a relieved sigh at the contact.

"You okay?" Steve asked, maybe for the dozenth time since the movers had arrived.

The bruises were gone, even from around Steve's wrist that Bucky had broken and then reset. He healed so fast. Bucky was thankful, but still couldn't quite shake what he had done. He sort of wished he had his ball cap on so he could pull it down tight over his brow and hide. Wished he had the glove for his metal hand. He hadn't bothered when they went to breakfast, the long sleeves of the shirt he'd borrowed from Steve hanging to his palms, though he had been sure to keep it hidden from the waitress and while they were walking out in the open.

He felt exposed now. Vulnerable. He didn't know how to explain that to Steve, when he should feel nothing but safe being next to him.

He jolted back to attention at the feel of soft knuckles running across his cheek. He looked to Steve and found his friend smiling warmly at him, bemused. His hands were so soft, despite how much he worked with them. Probably because his cells were always repairing and replacing themselves, rebuilding him anew.

"I should have shaved," Bucky said, concerned suddenly about how he looked, bedraggled and worn.

"I rarely have razors around anyway," Steve shrugged, "but I'm sure we can get you some once we're at the tower, if you want. You'd think my hair would grow super fast, but it's actually the opposite. I probably only shave once a month, and get my hair cut even less often. Funny how the serum works sometimes…" He trailed a little, revealing some of his own demons and insecurities that he wasn't able to face outright, which of course Bucky already knew about. He'd always known. He knew Steve's demons better than his own.

"I like you both ways…you know?" Bucky said. Then elaborated when Steve quirked an eyebrow at him. "Then. And now."

"Right back at ya, Bucky," Steve grinned wider and knocked him with his shoulder. Only Steve had sat on Bucky's left, so it was Bucky's left shoulder that he nudged. Bucky flinched before he could stop himself.

"Sorry," he said right away, because he saw the way Steve frowned. "It's not you, I just…I don't like you to have to…" he closed his eyes a moment and finished, "you shouldn't have to touch it."

Steve's frown deepened. He reached for Bucky's shoulder and placed his palm right at the spot where metal and flesh connected under the black shirt. Bucky flinched again, couldn't hide it with Steve's hand on him, but he found himself frozen when Steve started lifting up the sleeve of the shirt with his other hand to look at the metal.

Bucky formed a fist unconsciously, and the plates in his arm shifted.

Steve's eyes widened as he watched the movement, the whir of gears that was barely audible with the sound of the plane around them. His expression was more awe than anything, and although that surprised Bucky, he relaxed even when Steve gently touched his hand to the cool metal, while the other hand remained on Bucky's shoulder, holding up the sleeve.

"I'm an artist, remember?" Steve said. "Not an engineer by any stretch, but…I still appreciate machines, architecture, anything that shows off what people can create. Bad people may have created this, may have made you do bad things with it, but it's not ugly Bucky. It's not anything to be ashamed of, or self-conscious about. It's part of you now. And it's…well, it's something else, lemme tell ya." He ran his fingers down the plates, over each tiny groove, lingering on the painted red star.

Bucky's breath hitched. Steve always found the best in people, knew how to pick out the one thing they most hated about themselves and make it seem like their best aspect. How he'd never been able to do the same when looking in the mirror, Bucky didn't understand, but then he never would have been able to pick out something about Steve worth hating in the first place, and Steve…stupid punk that he was, had hated pretty much everything about himself before the serum.

"I thought you were beautiful then, too. Not only after. Not only now," Bucky said, watching Steve's eyes until they looked back at him.

His cheeks reddened in a way that always made him look like the boy from Brooklyn more than the star-spangled man. "I…I like you just as much _now_, Bucky," he said in answer, "not only because you remind me of then, of the man you were, but because we're both here now, no matter how we've changed or what we lost, and that's…it's so good, Bucky. You want me to believe you thought that skinny kid was just as worthy of adoration as you're looking at me now, well…then you gotta believe it when I say I love this version of you as much as the one I lost."

He slid his other hand down Bucky's arm, letting the sleeve drop a little, holding the metal in both hands in a strange parody of how he used to cling to Bucky moving through busy New York streets when they were kids.

Bucky leaned forward, prompting Steve to meet him halfway, and their lips met without hesitation. Emotion swelled in Bucky's chest, and he pushed the kiss deeper, just slightly, slipping his tongue past Steve's lips. The warmth when they connected made him shudder.

"We're still those boys from Brooklyn, Bucky," Steve whispered, "and now we're going home."

XXXXX

Moving in was so uneventful, Bucky almost forgot he had reason to be worried for a while, so when it hit him that he needed to be vigilant, needed to be careful and keep Steve in his sights at all times, he fought off the panic as best he could. He knew Sam had told him to find other anchors, but what else was there? There was nothing but Steve. Nothing else…not yet.

Stark didn't meet them right away, but had people ready to move them to their floor of the tower. And it was an entire floor, already prepared to accommodate more than just Steve, which seemed to amuse the captain. "I guess Tony knew that once I set my mind on finding you, nothing would stop me," he said.

But the extra bedroom, while thoughtful, was left untouched. Bucky put the few things that were his in Steve's room—_their_ room, Steve had said, and Bucky didn't correct him.

It was just as the movers were leaving that Stark came in with a flurry of words and movement.

"Cap, ol' buddy, ol' man, 'ol pal! About time you joined the more sophisticated of our crew at Avengers Tower. Meaning only myself and my near and dear science bro Banner, at the moment, but thanks for adding a couple antiques to the place for posterity's sake. It was really getting too modern in here. You must be Bucky."

A hand was thrust out toward Bucky in a way that might have caused his reflexes to grab it and flip Stark over onto the floor if he hadn't been looking at the man when it happened. He gingerly reached for it. "I—"

Stark sidestepped him, ignored the offered hand, and grabbed up Bucky's metal one instead. He didn't shake it, but inspected the hand, fingers and palm and everything else with sharp precision, completely unabashedly, without even meeting Bucky's eyes for more than a moment.

"Fascinating. Wonderful craftsmanship." Stark pushed Bucky's sleeve up all the way without so much as a 'may I?' "Gotta do something about the ruskie symbol. All red would take care of the problem. Or we could change the color scheme and add some circles around it so you boys can match. How 'bout it?"

Bucky was trying very hard to focus on Steve across the room rather than on how part of him wanted to grab Stark by the throat. He pleaded at Steve with his eyes as pointedly as he could.

"Tony, leave him alone," Steve came immediately to his rescue. "I said we'd make time for you to look at his arm, and we will. When Bucky's ready, and only if he's comfortable." He removed Stark of Bucky's arm with quick strong movements that managed to not risk bruising the man, despite how much Bucky thought he deserved a few.

Stark ignored Steve, though he didn't try to grab Bucky's arm again, and leaned into Bucky's face. "Bit too much hobo chic going on here, Buck Rogers, but I have people for that. A haircut, shave, a little Brooks Brothers—you will help me get Cap into something other than his current wardrobe, I hope. He'll listen to you, even if your sense of style is stuck during the…Cold War? Anything would be better than khakis. It's a disservice to the nation."

Bucky blinked. Stark spoke so fast, so constant, it was hard to focus on what was being said. But he caught that the man was as against Steve in ill-fitting slacks as he was. "I'm afraid I failed to throw his other pairs off the plane, but I can burn them later if you've got a tailor."

The smirk that spread across Stark's face was a mix between pride and pleasant surprise. "You know I hear he has a gaggle of fangirls who hang around the Washington Monument during the wee hours just to catch a sight of him in sweatpants."

"What? That's not true," Steve protested.

"Was he always this gullible," Stark shot his thumb out at Steve, "because I'm assuming the answer is yes. How long exactly do I have to wait before I can tinker with that thing?" He looked again to Bucky's arm. "I've already cleared my calendar. So—"

"Give the poor man some room, Tony," came another voice, as a man Bucky recognized to be Bruce Banner walked wearily toward them from out of the elevator. He wore a simple button down shirt and blazer, and took off a pair of spectacles briefly to rub his eyes before placing them back on his face.

Steve smiled and strode across the room to meet the doctor.

"Good to see you again, Cap," Banner said as they shook hands.

"You too, Bruce. Surviving Stark okay?"

"As much as can be expected. He apparently expects me to play the role of 'ship's counselor' as he put it, so…usually it involves long naps."

Steve laughed.

"You're a terrible friend," Stark deadpanned, seemingly entirely serious. He pointed at Bucky. "But if you want to work on that bedside manner, maybe poke and prod the recent amnesiac mentally a bit before you stick any needles in—for science's sake, of course," he said aside to Bucky, "then by all mean, have a crack at him first. But I get the arm later."

Banner rolled his eyes much as Steve kept doing, so Bucky relaxed at realizing that Stark was mostly all talk, not that he doubted the man would tinker with his prosthetic eventually.

"It's nice to meet you, Bucky," Banner said as he approached, shaking his hand just as he had with Steve. He tapped the bottom of his glasses up with his thumb. "You certainly seem to be doing well at a glance. Do you mind if—once you're ready—I take some blood samples and scans? I just want to be sure there's nothing they've done to you that could either hurt you over time, or that needs any upkeep, much the same way Tony wants a look at your arm, despite him seeming like he just wants to play. All good intentions here, I promise."

Bucky nodded. "I don't mind. Just…tell me what you're going to do before you do it, and we should be fine."

"As any good doctor should," Banner said. "Anything I should know ahead of time? Trouble sleeping. Blackouts? How's the memory retention going? I know you've started remembering things from your past, but any trouble forming new memories?"

"I…" Although Banner spoke slower and far more softly and polite than Stark, he had spouted a few too many things at once for Bucky to follow. He looked to Steve, but Steve merely smiled at him in support, leaving it up to him to explain. "No trouble with…any of that. Blackouts sort of, I guess. I've been having trouble sometimes…remembering who and when I am."

"_When_ you are?" Stark pressed.

Bucky averted his eyes to the carpet. "I'm mostly me. This me. Sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I think I'm the Bucky I was before Hydra. Sometimes I'm what they made of me."

There was a moment of silence where Bucky fought valiantly to not look up at Stark.

"When this happens, you don't remember anything but the personality who's in charge?" Banner asked.

"Nothing else."

"But once you snap back, there's no lost time? You remember everything?"

Bucky nodded.

"That's good," Banner said with something like relief in his voice, which prompted Bucky to look up at him. His eyes were very kind for someone with something as dangerous as the Hulk living inside of him. "If you lost time with all of your personalities, it could be more worrisome, but this sounds like something we can overcome. You're lucky, Bucky. Not everyone can beat the, uhh…other guys they have rattling inside their heads." His smile went slightly sour, but still held a sense of comradery.

"It's been a while since it last happened," Steve explained. "So far he's always snapped out of it, or I've been able to snap him back, but…if you have any insights, doc, it'd be appreciated."

"Sometimes it's just about knowing what the other guy wants and letting him have it," Banner shrugged. "We can work on that. It might just be a matter of time, letting your brain heal. Do we need to…take any precautions?" He glanced from Bucky to Steve.

Bucky knew he had to answer though, because Steve would always give him the benefit of the doubt, and sometimes that wasn't a good idea. "Anything you can do, you should," he said.

"Jarvis!" Stark called out to no one.

"Yes, Mr. Stark," answered a disembodied English voice that, even though Steve had prepared Bucky for the artificial intelligence Stark used as his butler—among other things—made him glance around for the source. He couldn't see any obvious speakers.

"Will you make sure that Mr. Barnes here is restricted access from leaving this floor unless one of the three of us is accompanying him?"

"Of course, Mr. Stark."

Tony smiled brightly at Bucky. "We'll unground you once we're sure everything's squared, okay? You don't have to feel like a prisoner."

"I know," Bucky said—the last thing they were making him feel like was a prisoner, even though part of him believed locking him up might be safest. "I'd rather you were overly cautious than, well…"

"Like him?" Tony shot his thumb at Steve again.

"Exactly."

Steve huffed but didn't comment.

XXXXX

Bucky did so well with Banner—getting blood samples taken, his vitals, even when the doctor scanned his brain and Bucky had to lie down—that he wondered if they'd even needed to tell Banner and Stark about his fluctuating personalities. Every minute that passed where he remained himself, he counted as a victory.

Even with Stark's impressive equipment, it would take some time before they got full results from Banner's tests, but at least the brain scan had turned out abnormally normal, which meant he didn't appear to have any permanent damage, at least not any that hadn't already healed due to whatever Hydra had done to him to make him almost as resilient as Steve.

Stark's chair was different. It wasn't metal, which was the only reason Bucky had been willing to sit in it, but it still tilted back at that angle he hated, reminding him of…

He shifted uneasily as Stark, pulled up on a stool beside him, opened up the plates along his arm to get a look inside. None of it hurt, no matter how many times Stark or Steve asked him. He felt pressure, not anything quite the same as when his flesh and blood arm was touched.

Stark found several trackers and listening devices inside, though only one actually looked in working order, and wasn't able to get any kind of signal out of Avenger's Tower, so after promptly destroying them all, they figured they were safe.

It was when Stark told him to just relax, and Bucky leaned his head back and closed his eyes, that everything changed. Bucky couldn't have guessed what the actual trigger was, maybe just forgetting to ground himself with the visuals around him while someone worked on his arm, but suddenly…the Winter Soldier was being prepped for another wipe.

He opened his eyes. He didn't recognize the technician working on his arm. He glanced to his other side.

Captain America.

He'd been compromised. He'd been captured. They were fools not to have restrained him.

The Winter Soldier pulled back his legs and kicked out at the captain, sending him flying backwards across the room and into a clutter of machinery. In the same moment that the technician—Stark, Iron Man, he cataloged quickly as he took in the man's face better—leaned back in his stool, startled, the Winter Soldier leapt up. He had Stark by the throat with his metal hand in moments, held against a nearby wall. His arm was broken open, tampered with in ways he couldn't guess, but it was still operational. He could crush the man's windpipe in moments.

"Bucky, stop!"

The Winter Soldier snarled as he looked over his shoulder. "I am not Bucky."

Captain America held up his hands in placation, no doubt to rescue his companion with compromise, who was choking audibly now as he struggled for air the Winter Soldier was not about to grant him.

"Captain Rogers, shall I alert security?" a voice echoed around the room, but the Winter Soldier could not locate a source.

"No, Jarvis, just wait," the captain answered then focused on him. "Just tell me…tell me what you want?"

That seemed like such a ridiculous question. Had he not proven that he would kill the captain and any of his companions? What he wanted was irrelevant. "I must finish my mission," he said, and looked back to Stark, at the man's wide eyes as he clawed at the metal fingers around his throat.

"And what is your mission?" the captain prompted calmly from behind him.

"You know my mission. Neutralize Captain America."

"You already failed at that, remember? You chose not to kill me. You saved me. I'm not your mission anymore. So what do you want?" The question was asked deliberately this time, slow and calculating.

The Winter Soldier didn't mean to loosen his grip—he didn't think he did—but Stark gasped in a gulp of air, still clinging to his metal hand as it held him in place but able to breathe again.

How had he forgotten? He had failed his mission. The captain had been as good as dead, but he had…pulled him from the water. Left him for S.H.I.E.L.D. to find. He'd saved him. He couldn't remember why, but he knew he'd saved him instead of finishing the mission. Hydra had been defeated—for now. His direct superiors were dead. He should leave. Report in. He…

"I…need…" he started and then shook his head. He'd been asked what he _wanted_. "I want a new mission," he answered honestly. Missions were all he knew.

Captain America's voice remained calm, as if he'd been expecting that answer, hoping for it. "Then your mission…is to be Bucky Barnes."

Bucky blinked, unable to look away from the fear in Stark's eyes that he hadn't expected of the man who acted so nonchalant, who seemed to laugh in danger's face and then make a snide remark about it for good measure. There were shadows and demons behind his eyes that Bucky didn't know yet, but he understood.

He released Stark and stepped back. Stark leaned against the wall behind exhaustedly, but didn't slide to the floor. He touched a hand gingerly to his neck. His breathing remained harsh for some time, as if he were struggling to keep it from getting out of control.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said, feeling like he needed to run, like he should run, but Steve would only chase him. He held out his hand instead, the one that hadn't recently tried to choke Stark out. The man took it far more readily than Bucky expected.

"No harm…done," Stark coughed, mustering a strange smile. "Haven't faced death quite that intimately in at least a couple weeks. Gotta keep myself on my toes. All systems normal, Jarvis!" he yelled to appease his troubled AI. The look in his eyes did not match the curve of his mouth, or his words though. He shook as Bucky steadied him on his feet.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said again. He didn't think he could say it enough. He knew the look in Stark's eyes. He'd seen it in the mirror.

Steve was there then, a hand settling on both their shoulders.

Bucky had shaken something loose in Stark, at least for a moment, but still, as the man came back to himself and truly calmed, he looked at Bucky with genuine forgiveness.

"How'd you know to ask that?" Bucky asked Steve, once they'd settled again with Bucky in the chair, Stark on his stool, and Steve flanking him.

"What Bruce said. Sometimes you just have to know what the other guy wants and give it to him," Steve smiled triumphantly. "That's not to say it won't happen again, I know, but it's a start. If it does happen again, maybe next time…he won't be as dangerous. He won't want to be."

Bucky hoped that was true.

"Well, Barnes and Noble, I think we're settled here," Stark said, as he closed up the last of Bucky's panels and sat back. "Sophisticated stuff, no doubt, but nothing I can't handle. Shouldn't need much maintenance. Maybe let me have a look once a month? If it gets damaged or starts acting funny, you tell me straight away, but it should take care of itself for the most part. Now, back to the subject of a paint job…"

Stark's ability to brush off what Bucky had done was honorable—maybe too honorable, like Steve. The man had already forgiven him deaths that were…very close to home, and here he was doing even more. Bucky figured he owed the guy.

"I like the shield idea," Bucky said, "to paint it like Steve's. You can do that?"

"Can I ever," Stark beamed. "You've seen my suits, right? We can do it right now. Jarvis?"

"Shall I prep stencil 2B, sir?" came Jarvis' voice.

Steve shook his head at Stark in complete bemusement, as if thinking of course the man would have prepared multiple stencils for just this moment.

"Have at it, Jarvis."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll get you fixed up yet," Stark said, patting Bucky's metal arm without an ounce of trepidation.

And despite his fears, Bucky believed that maybe they could.

* * *

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry for the delay on this last part! First there was a troll at AO3 I had to deal with. Strangest thing. Then I was just really busy. But here we are, the end! Not really a definitive end to everything of course, but it's everything I wanted to get out of me. Hope you enjoy! And thanks so much for the comments. :-)

* * *

Almost a week passed without any episodes. Bucky spent a little time alone with someone other than Steve each day. Banner continued a few tests, and while he had yet to determine just what it was Hydra had given Bucky that helped him survive his initial fall from the train, something like and unlike the serum Steve had been given, the former assassin was declared in good health—better than good.

Tony occasionally asked to tinker with the arm again, just to be sure he'd gotten down all of the notes he wanted, but was eventually content with cataloging how the arm reacted during a fight. Usually, it was a simple sparring session with Steve, which Bucky had been against in the beginning. But little by little, their blocks, and feints, and tumbling turned into something almost fun rather than a reminder of when they'd fought for real.

Eventually, Bucky even agreed to spar with Tony in one of his new suits. Afterward, Tony insisted he wasn't upset about the damage, and simply wandered off to do some additional calibrations.

It was then that Natasha appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, especially since Steve hadn't known she was even in the country. She was simply there, in the gym used for more aggressive sparring and testing, just as Tony left. Steve had called her, talked to her about Bucky, but she'd made no mention of coming to see them.

"Maybe _we_ could have a go again?" she said, head tilted just slightly as she regarded Bucky. "I wasn't quite in top form last time. I feel I deserve a rematch."

Bucky looked to Steve, silently questioning.

"It's all you, Buck," Steve said. "Whatever you want to do."

Bucky nodded, and turned back to Natasha with fierce determination, but Steve knew it wasn't resolve to put Natasha in her place—Bucky's goal from the beginning was to learn to control himself, to pull back, while still learning new ways to face and fight an enemy. He was determined to _not_ hurt her, and because of that Steve sat down cross-legged against the wall to watch without any fear.

Natasha wasn't dressed for sparring as they were, in tank tops and sweatpants. But then Steve had seen her fight in very unconventional clothing before. She wore a jacket that she removed, but underneath was a button down blouse and jeans—hardly conducive to easy movement.

She didn't wait for any signal from Bucky to begin, but rushed him as soon as her jacket hit the floor. Steve was amazed at how they looked, matching each other move for move, Bucky conscientious of his metal arm, but using it where it could give him an advantage without causing too much damage. Natasha seemed to be goading him though, trying to get him to lose control on purpose.

Then she had him in a hold, her lips beside his ear, and while Steve couldn't catch exactly what she said, he knew she whispered something to him in Russian.

The change in Bucky was immediate, and Steve leapt to his feet. He readied himself to spring across the gym as the Winter Soldier's hits became harder, his eyes fiercer, his metal arm lashing out liberally until he finally caught Natasha by the throat as he had Tony all those days ago.

But before Steve could sprint to Natasha's aid…those cold blue eyes drifted to him. It wasn't an abrupt change back, not a snap like before where he was suddenly Bucky again; no, the Winter Soldier was the one who chose to let Natasha go, who set her down gingerly and stepped back. It was the Winter Soldier who nodded at Steve, closed his eyes, and opened them again to reveal Bucky.

"Well I'll be," Natasha said, out of breath but not seeming to be injured. "I'll never doubt you again, Cap. You either," she said to Bucky, and extended a hand.

He eyed her a moment, debating whether he was upset or grateful at what she had forced from him, no doubt, but his decision on the matter was clear when he met her grip firmly and they shook in the middle of the gym.

"I think you owe me lunch after that. You boys hungry?" she asked with a sly smirk.

It was later that same night, when Steve had been sequestered for some time being given updates from around the globe about Hydra's movements and other potential threats, that he had to admit to himself that his 'honeymoon,' as Tony called it, would have to come to an end soon. Bucky had already expressed his desire to join the fight against Hydra. Steve couldn't imagine being away from him for as long as some missions might take anyway, but he wanted to be sure Bucky was ready to go with him.

He returned to their shared floor of Avengers Tower, where Bucky had been alone for several hours after their lunch with Natasha, to find the place seemingly empty.

"Bucky?"

Steve craned his ears for sounds of movement, but more than that he heard music coming faintly from the direction of the balcony. As he approached, he soon caught sight of Bucky outside, looking over the city. He must have asked Jarvis to play something. Stark had speakers literally built into every surface and wall as far as Steve could tell.

The song was "All or Nothing At All," and Bucky's hips were swaying just slightly.

"Bucky," Steve called again, amused now as he joined him out on the balcony. They'd both long since changed out of their sweats. Steve wore a navy T-shirt, while Bucky was wearing a dark grey sweater—long sleeved, as he preferred.

Bucky peered over his shoulder with a sideways smile, an expression that melted Steve instantly because it was all _Bucky_. "Come here," he said simply.

Steve obliged and joined him at the ledge, close enough that their elbows bumped with Bucky on Steve's left. It was still early evening but the sun was setting, with the lights all coming to life around the city.

"Where is this place?" Bucky asked offhandedly.

"Midtown. See the Chrysler Building?"

Bucky nodded, as if of course he could tell where they were—he knew New York City as well as Steve did—but like he still found it hard to believe. "The city sure looks different from when we left it, huh?"

"I'll say," Steve said, "but it's still nice being home. Something about this city always feels more right than anywhere else."

"It does with you here."

Steve couldn't help the blush that spread through his cheeks when he looked at Bucky and found his friend staring at him adoringly. He wasn't used to it, not that kind of open affection, nothing hidden or unsaid.

"Dance with me," Bucky said, not really asking as he pushed from the ledge to move to the middle of the balcony. He held his right hand out to Steve.

"What?" Steve laughed.

"Come on, Stevie. What else are two young fellas on a night like this supposed to do if not go dancing? We got music and the whole city around us. Dance with me," he said again, moving forward and physically grabbing Steve's hand to pull him from the ledge and join him in the center.

Steve let Bucky manhandle him into position, relieved that Bucky let him lead, like he'd always done when they were younger and he was first trying to teach Steve to dance. Back then Bucky had said, "Well you gotta lead, partner; how else ya gonna learn? Besides, you're not good enough to do this backwards." Steve had never really learned successfully. He'd tried after he woke up in present day, but didn't have much passion for it. All his desired partners had no longer been viable options.

Now he just hoped he wouldn't step on Bucky's feet.

Bucky's metal hand settled on Steve's shoulder, his right clasped with Steve's. The song switched to "All of Me" and Steve started to recognize the theme.

"Relax, pal," Bucky said softly, pulling Steve in close as they swayed to the music and did a half-hearted two-step. "You ain't gonna hurt me."

Steve's 240 lbs begged to differ, because he was pretty sure that would hurt slamming down on Bucky's toes. He wobbled a little and tried to take a few deep breaths to just let the music lead him and stop being so self-conscious. He focused on it being _Bucky_ in his arms, and how this was one outcome from his days in the war that was definitely a happy ending.

"We're really home, Stevie…" Bucky whispered.

"Yeah." Steve pressed his cheek to Bucky's, savoring the contact.

When Bucky pulled his face away it was to look at Steve with those same adoring eyes and lean up for a kiss. Steve stopped the movement of his feet to accept it, because he definitely didn't trust his dancing skills with his eyes closed. Bucky's face was smooth now as their skin brushed. It never failed to amaze Steve how their lips fit together just so, how his stomach quivered when their tongues tangled.

They'd fooled around most nights since their arrival at the tower, hurried heated moments and frantic fumbling, often without managing to get their shorts off, but they hadn't done much more than that. Steve figured Bucky was worried that at any moment he might suddenly be the Winter Soldier clutching at him instead, and Steve wanted so badly to banish those thoughts for him.

Bucky didn't seem to be worried now.

"If I could have one wish…it'd be that we hadn't waited so long to do this," Bucky said against his lips, slowly swaying to get Steve to move his feet to the music again.

"That'd be your one wish, huh?"

"Just that. Back on those cushions on the floor when we were teenagers, before I left for the war, huddled against the cold overseas. Should've snuggled up to you for warmth then. Thought about it a few times."

Steve laughed. "You did?"

"Figured I coulda laughed it off like…well, think of all those times you snuggled me for warmth when we had nothing but one bed and barely any blankets…all innocent like. Then…who knows what might have happened."

"I'm thinking Dum Dum would have had his usual timing and managed to interrupt."

This time Bucky laughed. It warmed Steve just to know Bucky remembered Dum Dum, and the others; that he remembered everything now—or near enough.

"Guess we should make up for lost time then," Bucky said, "now that we're home. Doncha think?"

Steve stumbled a little trying to get back into their two-step, but elected to simply sway instead, which Bucky allowed despite releasing a few chuckles. "I guess we should," Steve said. "I don't have anywhere to be tonight. Just here. With you."

"Damn right. So tell me something, Stevie…" Bucky's voice dropped to a whisper, even though the music was soft and they were alone. "If there was anything you could ask of me, anything at all…any nasty little fantasy you ever had, no matter how dirty…what would you want? Ah!" Bucky grimaced as Steve promptly stepped on his foot as he stumbled. Then Bucky laughed.

"Sorry!" Steve's face had never felt so hot. He knew he had to be as red as the details on his uniform. He turned his head away, eyes cast to the floor.

"You like this, right? Being together like this?" Bucky asked, with maybe the smallest traces of trepidation in his voice.

Steve immediately looked up again, met Bucky's blue, blue eyes. They'd stopped swaying, stopped moving, but were still met closely as dancing partners. "You know I do, Bucky. It's more than I ever would have asked for myself."

"But that's the problem," Bucky said, a sly smirk creeping back into his expression. "You never think you can ask. You can. I want you to. I want to know…" he stepped closer into Steve's body, one hand on Steve's shoulder still, the other tangled with Steve's fingers, "…if you could ask for anything…any dirty little thing…what would it be?"

Steve swallowed low in his throat, closed his eyes. His face was on fire. "I guess…you'd paint quite the pretty picture…on your knees," he said, barely able to believe the words left him.

"Be more specific, soldier," Bucky teased, lips near enough to the side of Steve's mouth to brush the skin. "What would I be doing there…on my knees?"

A shudder ran through Steve and he tightened his grip on Bucky's hand. "You said…that you'd wanted to crowd me into every dark alley we passed when we were younger, make me…come right there. I can picture you…crowding in on me, dropping to your knees…"

"Yeah…?"

Steve swallowed again. "Opening my fly and taking me out…"

"Taking what out?"

"Bucky." Steve could hear the bastard's smile, even though his eyes were still clenched closed from nerves.

"Just say it, Stevie, come on. Say the words. All those naughty little words…"

It was silly how difficult it was to do as Bucky asked, how Steve felt like he was twelve years old and learning what liking someone really meant for the first time, how the most childish of things could make him blush and clam right up. But this was Bucky. There was no fear of rejection—Steve hoped. They were grown men now. They could ask for what they wanted.

So he took a breath, opened his eyes, saw all that blue so close to him.

"I want you to crowd me into the corner, Bucky, open my fly, take my cock out and suck it down between your lips. Those perfect, pretty lips…" And before Steve's face could burn any hotter, he kissed Bucky, and both heard and felt his friend hum in victory.

Bucky licked at Steve's lips when they pulled apart, just a tiny, promising flick with his tongue. "Yes, sir," he said and started forcing Steve to backpedal right that second, shoving him into the corner of the balcony until Steve felt the wall at his back.

Steve hadn't necessarily meant this corner. Outside. _In the open._

"Bucky…"

"Captain's orders, Stevie." Bucky gave a tiny salute. Then dropped—straight to his knees.

Steve had already felt so much heat and blood heading south as they danced, more so when Bucky said those dirty things, made him say dirty things. But now. He felt a sharp pulse in his groin, and figured that if anything could actually kill him, it might be this moment.

He couldn't form words, merely stared as Bucky's hands worked deftly to undo his fly—khakis again, his last pair, since they all kept going mysteriously missing once they went to the laundry—slid them just slightly down his hips, then went for the waist of his boxers.

A whimper escaped Steve, causing a corner of Bucky's mouth to twitch. That's why he didn't protest, didn't struggle, just leaned back and let Bucky pull him out to the open air. He wanted it, oh he did, but Bucky did too. And he'd always happily give Bucky whatever he wanted.

Bucky's fingers around Steve's cock weren't a foreign sensation, not anymore, but it had always been in the dark of their room, hidden beneath covers, like nervous teenagers. When Bucky first leaned forward to take Steve into his mouth, the wet slide of his tongue preceding the encasement of soft lips, Steve moaned loudly over the music without meaning to. He didn't even know what song was playing anymore.

Bucky's metal hand clutched at Steve's waist holding him in place against the glass wall, while his flesh and blood fingers held tight at the base, working when needed, stroking down just beneath his balls, while his mouth bobbed. His eyes were on his work but then they flicked up and Steve gasped at the combination of meeting Bucky's gaze while he worked him.

Steve's knees shook, and his hips subtly arched forward and back again, more insistently as Bucky continued. He braced one hand against the glass, but reached the other forward. He didn't want to pull at Bucky's hair, didn't want there to be anything harsh about this, even though he was getting close to desperate. He tangled his fingers into the wild, longer locks of Bucky's hair gently, encouraging him, stroking at the base of his neck, as Bucky stroked the base of Steve's cock and swallowed him down.

The cry was sharp and sudden, though not quite as loud as his initial moan, when Steve finally came. He felt awful that he hadn't warned Bucky, hadn't realized it was happening until it surprised him with a shock and shudder down to his toes. But when he looked down to see Bucky wiping his mouth, a familiar, charming but somehow predatory grin on his face that Steve knew too well as Bucky's 'up to no good' expression, he couldn't feel anything but bliss.

"Just how you always imagined it, punk?" Bucky asked as he stood, having the courtesy to shift Steve back into his shorts, but not pulling up his slacks.

Steve was too dazed for banter. He let his head lull against the glass. "Yeah…"

Bucky laughed. He moved into Steve, right there in the corner where he'd already crowded him and had his way, so that their bodies melded. He laid his head on Steve's shoulder and wrapped his arms around him, just leaning there together, into each other.

Steve could have stayed like that for hours. Before he knew it, he started swaying again, though much more subtly than their try at dancing, as the music played on.

"Steve?" Bucky eventually said.

"Hm?"

"How did you find me?"

"Huh? What do you mean? There weren't many places for you to go but out on the balcony. And I heard the music."

"No, I mean…in the snow? How did you find me? I don't remember…"

Cold crept in on Steve's pocket of warmth—no, not crept; an avalanche.

How had he not realized? When had it happened? Maybe it had been the wrong Bucky since the moment he joined him on the balcony, there was no way to know, but right now Steve was not with the sum of Bucky's parts. He willed the gnawing guilt that crept into his otherwise pleasantly buzzing gut to stay away.

"Bucky…I didn't find you," he said, carefully, slow and gentle, because it was always more heartbreaking watching this Bucky remember and become the real Bucky again, somehow so much worse than the Winter Soldier. "Hydra did."

Blue eyes met his—questioning, scared. "But how…"

"What do you want, Bucky?" Steve asked before things could snap back to the present.

"What? I don't—"

"_What do you want?"_ Steve asked again.

Bucky's eyes darted around, unable to focus, until he finally closed them and took a breath. "I just want you, Stevie. Just you. I waited for you…"

In the snow. With Hydra. Bucky had waited and Steve never came.

No, Steve shook his head. They'd had this discussion. It made Bucky so angry when he blamed himself, when he started in on the coulda, shoulda, wouldas. They couldn't change any of it now. But they didn't have to. Because they had now. They had today. They had the whole 21st century. In the end, Bucky had found Steve, and they were together. That's what mattered. They would always be together.

"I'm right here, Bucky," Steve said, "always. We found each other. And I'll always be right here."

Bucky clung to him, pushed his face against his neck. "Til the end of the line?"

"And past that too."

Steve knew the exact moment when Bucky was back, whole. It was a subtle jolt, easy to miss, but the way he tensed and then relaxed again said everything.

"I'm sorry, Bucky," Steve said right away, hugging him back, tight as he could. "I didn't realize."

"Sorry for what?" Bucky said, though his voice was gruffer now. "Do you really think all that wasn't something I'd want now too? I remember it all, you know, and I'd do it all over again." He pulled back, pulled away so that they were still holding each other close but could look into the other's eyes. "Sometimes, when I'm like that…I wish I could stay that way forever. I wish I didn't have to remember everything."

"Both parts are you, Bucky. Every part. We've had this discussion, remember? I love all of you."

"Yeah, well…I don't."

"I love you enough for both of us," Steve insisted. Even him and The Winter Soldier had a sort of accord now, an understanding. And there was nothing to forgive—never anything to forgive. Not if Bucky never thought Steve needed forgiveness.

Bucky sighed, got that look on his face that said he knew Steve was right but still resented him for it, at least a little. "Yeah…I know you do. But maybe we should head inside now, take the rest of this into the bedroom? Got a few things we need to make even." He valiantly banished the remaining traces of grief from his face to smirk suggestively.

The firmness pressing into Steve's hip also had a case to make.

Steve was fine with that. Just fine.

"It's an early night," Steve said. "What say we go into the bedroom…and do our damndest not to come out til morning? You owe me your deepest, dirtiest fantasy, after all." If Bucky wasn't going to let anything sour their night then Steve owed it to him to keep up.

Bucky stepped back out of Steve's arms, a sly grin on his face. "Jarvis, you can cut the music now."

"As you wish, Mr. Barnes."

"You gonna do up your fly, star-spangled man?"

"Nah," Steve answered, pretty sure he'd conquered his blushes—for now—as he pushed from the glass wall and walked across the balcony after Bucky. "Why bother if I'm just gonna take 'em off? You coming?" He crossed in front of Bucky to head inside.

"You bet, pal. Always."

And even though 'always' was a lot to ask, Steve knew it was a promise neither of them would ever break. Not without a fight.

* * *

THE END


End file.
